Of Mongrels, Fools and other Riff-Raff
by Kynrael
Summary: Formerly Two Girls One Jester - Rated M for later Chapters - Not so much fluffy Romance, but friendship, morbid moments, debauchery and bloodshed - 2X F Dragonborn / M Ingame Characters. Of two mongrel Sisters, Fools and other Riff-Raff trying to make a living or at least finding some entertainment.
1. 1 Homeward Bound

**Of Mongrels, Fools and other Riff-Raff **

**(Previously Two Girls one Jester - which was only a working title)**

**Chapter 1 - Homeward Bound  
**

This chapter will focus on the introduction of my OCs Ashlyn and Myrabeth - placing some first hints.  
So there won't be any gore, smut or romance right now ^^ I'll keep that for the coming chapters. Those also will be a little bit different in their structure. Some chapters will be about one PoV only, sometimes two. This gives me more freedom and room to get the story going without rushing it too much.

Second chapter is already in the making. I intend to be able to release it in the coming days (middle of March).

**Note for Language and Lore Freaks:**

English isn't my native language. So forgive me, if some weird germanized sentence structures snuck in.

Even if I haven't declared this as crossover, you might encounter some content, jokes or phrases that come from another universe (so far you are familiar with some old school RPG games or books/movies).

* * *

**Ashlyn - Windhelm**

A thick depressing mass of grey clouds and a bone chilling snow storm whipped across the city of Windhelm, tugging fiercely at branches of trees and bushes. This wasn't a welcoming city for a Dunmer, no matter if one was referring to the climate or the people who lived in this snow cursed swath of land. Too bad she couldn't shout the dreary weather away like the Greybeards.

If it hadn't been for her sister's persistent nagging, Ashlyn would have never set foot in this place. Here, the only warmth one could expect was provided by tavern brawls, alcohol and the forge of the local blacksmith. She missed Cyrodiil, especially Cheydinhal and its flower decorated houses.

Now she stood here, freezing her ass off and hidden in the corner of a porch, while her sister poked around in some keyhole. While she tried to evade the never ending wind biting into her skin, she kept an eye on the empty streets. Ashlyn could only hope that no one would come by and see what was going on. Their escape from Riften, after they had murdered that old wench from the Orphanage, had been quite a drama and expensive.

Ashlyn had no desire to raise a bounty on their heads in Windhelm, too. Especially not with Ulfric on the throne, who was known as a rather unforgiving Jarl. With a bit of luck, they could dare to show their faces in Riften after a couple of months. Murder and thievery wasn't too uncommon there, they were after all high ranking members of the thief's guild.

_'They will have to get along without us for a while…'_ she thought sadly. It never would have occurred to her, missing those rough louds, but she did.

Heavy wet snowflakes kept slapping into Ashlyn's face, while she angrily watched her sister fumbling with a lock. "We shouldn't meddle in Dark Brotherhood affairs Myra. They could come after us, you know and just because our mother…"

"Calm down Ash, I've got it in a few seconds." Myrabeth intervened; "just a few more careful turns to the right!" breathed Myrabeth, whose eyebrows were furrowed in extreme concentration only disrupted by small giggles. "It was quite fun watching her die like a rabid dog, all foaming," A clicking sound and the pained groan of old wet wood was heard "There we go… and in we go!" Myrabeth chirped happily, still giggling.

Rolling her eyes, Ashlyn followed in, welcoming the dark and somewhat warmer ambiance. "Yes it was fun. But this is Skyrim. Not Cyrodiil. They don't know us, nor do we anything about them." Ashlyn hissed, remembering the horrible riots. "How can you be certain they won't cut our throats for stealing one of their contracts?"

Myrabeth's hand came up, gesturing her to be silent. Her eyes sparkled with intense crazy joy, pointing upstairs in satisfaction. From some room above, she and her sister picked up a low murmur. It sounded almost like a chant with a desperate undertone; or was it frustration? Ashlyn couldn't make out the words yet, but from the repetitive rhythm it was clear was said.

She still doubted that a mere child could perform the Dark Sacrament with serious intent and that Myrabeth was just following a foolish rumor in the hope to find those who their mother had considered family. But what could she do. She was her sister, a totally crazy nut, yet her sister nonetheless.

Listening intently, she still wondered how long the boy was already at summoning required a certain attitude and dark finality of mind and a great deal of gold. While children could be cruel, Ashlyn was convinced that they neither had the gold nor the spirit. What if the boy would back out and suddenly regret what he had asked for. The woman was dead and death couldn't be undone.

Sneaking upstairs, Myrabeth's eyes went wide and so did her lips. If her grin grew any wider, she could start chewing on her ears, "See, what have I told you!" with an theatrical gesture she beckoned her closer.

"So what? If he's a child, it can't be taken serious…" Ashlyn growled at her sister with a low voice, while they squeezed path her sister.

Carefully, not to topple over any of the clutter they headed for the room from which the chanting came. "Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, Send your child onto me…For the Sins of the unworthy… must be baptized in blood and fear."

Myrabeth chuckled under her breath, almost starting to dance upstairs like an idiot. Sighing inwardly Ashlyn ignored her sister.

As they entered the door frame of the room, both of them saw a young boy kneeling and hunched over a bloody heart and a skeleton.

They waited several minutes in absolute quietness, listening to the frantic pleas of the boy repeating over and over the same ritual words. With a sigh, Myrabeth stepped in and towered over the young one but said nothing as he jumped up, his eyes huge with surprise and joy.

"Really, I mean, I knew the Dark Brotherhood was good... just not that good! You killed the old hag before I even asked!" His arms hugged around the legs of Myrabeth, who gave Ashlyn one of her smartassing triumphant grins.

Not in the mood for childish games, Ashlyn quietly asked "Do you have the payment ready, boy?"

Releasing Myrabeth, from his embrace, he jumped past the women out of the room. Clanking and thuds of objects falling to the ground could be heard and then quick steps returning to the room. In his hand was a huge ornate silver plate, and without hesitation he props it into Myrabeth's hands. "I have a family heirloom you can have. Supposed to be sort of valuable. I hope that's all right."

Ashlyn thought "Well, better than nothing…"

Her sister patted the boy's head. 'Don't be so greedy sister. To him it's probably of a higher value than to us in gold' Myrabeth's mind brushed against Ashlyn's. 'Maybe we should give it back to him. It doesn't feel right to take something that belonged to his mother.'

Ashlyn shook her head, giving her sister a mental pummeling, 'No way! Business is business. You killed that old woman and now don't get soft. We keep it. It has been weeks since I had a bath and a good fuck! And who knows, maybe we die a horrible death sometime soon…'

The only answer she received was a high pitched laugh and a fist in her shoulder. Since early childhood they could communicate silently, only using their minds. It was useful, but very often unsettling if one of them wasn't in control of their emotions. It took some effort to hide each other's intentions, not to mention well-meant surprises or intimate moments with the few hunks Skyrim had to offer. Not to mention pranks among siblings, for which she was more than grateful. Myrabeth had a sick sense of humor she wouldn't even wish upon her most dreaded enemy.

**Myrabeth Windhelm – New Gnisis Cornerclub**

The hot water felt good and sitting huddled up next to her sister, Myrabeth could finally relax. Despite her goal to find the last remaining Sanctuary of the Dark Brotherhood, she felt anxious and worn from all the attempts. Finally they had made some progress, not to mention the fun she had while doing so.

It had been pure luck that they found out about that Aretino boy doing the Black Sacrament. Something like that wasn't exactly material for gossip nor reliable rumors. In worst case it could have been a trap. Not that she had anything against slicing some throats of unwanted witnesses, but she had promised her sister and a promise was a promise.

Ashlyn took a mouth full of the soapy water, and squirted it into Myrabeth's direction, "Stop grinning like an idiot. No wonder the men weren't interested in us…"

"What men? You really must be desperate if you call those filthy and hairy skeevers men," Myrabeth snorted, and splashed water into her sister's face. "When we get back to Whiterun you better pay Athis a visit. He's leaving trails of drool wherever you walk… you better make him stop before someone slips on it."

Ashlyn giggled, "No thanks. I prefer a well-equipped grown up man and not a boy."

"Men like Sam Guevenne?" Myrabeth had to stifle a giggle.

Her sister still holding a grudge against Sanguine, had challenged the Lord of Debauchery himself for a drinking contest which he had accepted with the widest and most wicked grin Myrabeth could remember. In the end, and very much to her sister's disappointment, they all spend the night nurturing the trees and bushes with their vomit instead of having a happy threesome.

Ashlyn sighed "Don't remind me, yes? I don't even remember when I had a man in bed who didn't run off screaming for help when things got a bit rough."

"Well, what do you expect! There's a reason that he's grandpa's best drinking buddy, so that makes him part of the family…" Myrabeth said, then grinned at the thought. "Uncle Sanguine! That sounds kinky!"

Letting her head loll back, Ashlyn directed her annoyed groan toward the ceiling. "That reminds me of something. I still think it would have been better to leave Lucia with Farkas. That old crabber has a way with unruly kids."

"Yeah, until your fosterling finds herself a pet spider." Myrabeth chuckled, picturing Farkas running through Whiterun, screaming Oblivion and damnation.

Another squirt of water hit her face, "Don't be so mean. You know why he doesn't like spiders."

Grabbing for the goblet next to the bath tub, Myrabeth cackled, "Well, if Lucia isn't going for a pet spider, I sure will do. They are useful for my poisons. They make my victims squirm and twitch so nicely…"

"You are crooked!" her sister retorted, "and don't you dare to use my adopted brood as an excuse to infest my house with vermin you consider useful. The skeever droppings in my storage room weren't exactly useful nor appetizing and I bet that hagraven head you hid under your bed already got worms housing in it…"

Myrabeth pouted and answered with a fake whine, "Yes mommy…" Changing the subject, she leaned forward her expression turning into a very intense frown, "Ash, what will you do if they come for us before we get back to Whiterun? What if they aren't like our mother's family? What if their Listener is not like aunt Alisanne or Rasha?"

Ashlyn reached out, removing a wet lock of white hair from Myrabeth's eyebrow, "What is done is done. I got your back sister. If they turn out to be hostile, I will FUS RO DAH them to Sovngarde." Everything in the room reverberated slightly, letting the water churn in tiny ripples.

Myrabeth swallowed hard. Under normal circumstances she would have laughed at their insider joke. This time a treacherous pressure rose in her nose and behind her eyes. Thinking of Cheydinhal brought back the faces of the people she loved and considered family and the horrible events that lead to their flight to Skyrim.

One day, she swore, they would pay for this. She would skin the one alive who had killed Rasha, and burn down the houses of those who had taken the only chance of becoming acknowledged Assassins of the Dark Brotherhood themselves.

Not being able to speak with all those tears behind her eyes, she took another much deeper sip from her goblet. Skyrim wasn't all bad. The dragon shouts weren't only handy, they also brought a lot of fun and opened many doors to all kinds of pranks and mischief. Whiterun was as much home as any tavern room for the night, the companions were kind and good to them, and so was the thieves guild. But it wasn't home as she knew it. It wasn't simply the same.

Watching the flames in the fireplace dance and flicker across the red embers, she contemplated the past and future possibilities.

Something brushed her face, stroking across her skin like a flimsy spider web 'Don't grief for the fallen… find some peace in sleep.'

Shaking her head, she eyed her sister with miffed intent at that sudden and unwanted lecture _'Playing the smartass again, huh?'_

'Huh?' Ashlyn frowned quizzically at her, touching her sister's mind_. 'What brought that up?'_

Tired of mind speaking, Myrabeth whispered "Do you really think a bit sleep will make all the pain go away? Even if we haven't been in the Brotherhood, they have been our family and friends, too! I simply can't sleep over it. No no I can't!"

With a sudden rush and loud splashing, Ashlyn climbed out of the tub. "Come to bed. Tomorrow we head back to Whiterun and see what Lucia brought into the house this time." With a sigh she grabbed for a cloth and started to rub down her ebony skin.

Myrabeth soon followed her example. The bed suddenly looked very tempting. Maybe tomorrow things would look a bit brighter. Before she drifted away into sweet Oblivion, she snickered into her pillow. At least the Aretino boy would be happy to find his family heirloom still in his possession if he stuck his nose out of the door.

After they had sold it to the blacksmith of Windhelm, Myrabeth had stolen it back when no one watched.

But the sweet embrace of sleep didn't last long. _'Myra, wake up…'_ A painful jab in her ribs send her jumping out of her bed, ready to trash whoever had intruded upon her night rest. Myrabeth had no idea why the air was so extremely cold and clammy, and why the heck did heir room look so decrepit.

"Where the hell are we. Ash?" she looked at her sister, who angrily kept her eyes pinned to a dark corner. Her eyes followed and she saw a shrouded figure sitting on top of an old shelf.

"Sleep well?" a female voice asked.

Where have you dragged us to? Some swamp?" Ashlyn's head went around, probably searching for something to give their captor a good clubbing.

The woman answered, completely unruffled by their attitude, "Does it matter? You're warm, dry... and still very much alive. That's more than can be said for old Grelod. Hmm?"

Myrabeth focused on her breath, calling upon her blood 'Don't…' Ashlyn cautioned her not to.

"Half of Skyrim knows," the woman laughed. "Old hag gets butchered in her own orphanage? Things like that tend to get around. Oh, but don't misunderstand. I'm not criticizing. It was a good kill. Old crone had it coming. And you saved a group of urchins, to boot. Ah, but there is a slight... problem." She paused, regarding the sisters with narrowed eyes. "You see, that little Aretino boy was looking for the Dark Brotherhood. For me, and my associates. Grelod the Kind was, by all rights, a Dark Brotherhood contract. A kill... that you stole. A kill you must repay."

Heartbeat quickened, Myrabeth had no idea if she should start to dance and laugh or shout the shit out of that annoying wench on the shelf.

Ashlyn put a hand in a calming gesture on Myrabeth's shoulder. "What now. What do you want of my sister and me? Gold?"

"Well now. Funny you should ask. If you turn around, you'll notice my guests. I've "collected" them from... well, that's not really important. The here and now. That's what matters. You see, there's a contract out on one of them, and that person can't leave this room alive. But... which one? Go on, see if you can figure it out. Make your choice. Make your kill. I just want to observe... and admire." The woman threw a dagger in their direction, which Myrabeth snatched out of the air.

The coldness of the floor was forgotten and so the circumstances that had brought them here. 'Home sweet Void, I am coming!'

Ashlyn groaned under her breath, signaling her to do whatever she wanted to around, Myrabeth eyed the three captives and asked with a leering smile, "Which little pig shall it be…"

**Cicero - On his way to the Sanctuary on some Road**

He was stuck and as if the situation wasn't bad enough it was dark and raining. No one would be willing to help a stranger at night, not with all those bandits and foresworn skulking around. With a torch in his hand, Cicero threw back worried glances at the huge wooden coffin on load floor of the cart.

The farmer who lived close by had turned him away like a filthy beggar, not even the gold Cicero had offered him could change the man's mind. All he would have needed would have been an extra pair of strong hands or another draft horse, pulling the cart out of the dirt.

"Curses and pox on those stupid Nords. Can't even build proper streets," he growled under his breath, watching tiny rills of water running down coffin. He had to get the coffin out of the rain, or all his suffering had been for naught.

What had he done to deserves this? Hadn't he been always a good Keeper? "Poor Cicero…" No answer, only Silence.

With frantic sweeps of his gloved hands, he wiped at the water, "Sweet mother are you alright?" he asked quietly with a hint of hope, putting his hands on the wooden surface of the coffin. "Please don't be mad at poor Cicero."

The prospect of having still several hours of a muddy and hole infested road ahead made his mind reel. He couldn't risk losing the remains of the Unholy Mother, not now… not ever. He was her Keeper and it was his sacred duty to protect and tend to her remains.

Not caring about the wet mud staining his clothes and boots, he coaxed his horse into another rescue attempt. While his horse strained forward he grabbed hold of the stuck wheel, trying to free it from the trappings which held it tight in the sludge.

Without warning the wheel cracked around the notch and the cart sunk into his direction. First panic, then anger frothed up. He wanted to kill someone, no matter who. He was stuck in the rain and that accursed farmer Loreius wouldn't even let poor sweet mother sleep in the barn.

"Agh! Bother and befuddle! Stuck here! Stuck! My mother, my poor mother. Unmoving. At rest, but too still!" Snarling, kicking up dirt and sludge, he shook his fist at the evil wheel for giving him such a hard time.

An amused female voice called from afar, "Need help with that wagon?"

Distracted from his ranting, he turned his gaze into the direction from where the voice came. With a swirling light floating high in the air, a lonely figure walked towards him. _'Only a lonely wanderer… no problem for Cicero should there be evil intend… my dagger will make short work of her if she tries something funny… heheeheee… funny'_ he thought, trying to calm the skittish horse which suddenly began to flatten its ears back.

The horse became more and more agitated, splattering his jester's suit with more dirt. As if the broken wheel and rain hadn't been enough. The Fool of Hearts looking like pitiful filthy wretch. Then again, looking pitiful might help his cause.

Letting go of the horse's head-stall, he pointed at the broken wheel, „Poor Cicero is stuck. Can't you see? I was transporting my dear, sweet mother." How would he explain this stranger his need without giving away the truth… after pausing he said "Well, not her. Her corpse! She's quite dead. I'm taking mother to a new home. A new crypt. But..." with all his strength he could muster he kicked against the broken wheel, not caring that more of the dirty water splashed up his pants, "aggh! Wagon wheel! Damnedest wagon wheel! It broke! Don't you see?"

Putting his best 'looking miserable' expression on, he took his jester's hat and wrung the water out of it before putting it back on. "Poor poor Cicero. No one wants to help a soaked and filthy fool. Ohhh woe me..."

The woman laughed, and pushed her hood back which revealed a smiling Dunmer face in the floating mage light. "Calm down, let me help you with this. Is there any barn or maybe village nearby?"

Her offer kindled joy in his heart. This was most unexpected, especially at night_, 'She wants to help us… sweet Cicero has found help. Maybe Cicero is naïve and she only wants to rob us, but oh what choice do I have sweet mother…'_

"Oh. Oh yes! Yes, the kindly stranger can certainly help!" dancing happily he pointed up the hill from where he had returned without success, "Go to the farm - the Loreius Farm. Just over there, off the road. Talk to Loreius. He has tools! He can help me! But he won't! He refuses! Convince Loreius to fix my wheel! Do that, and poor Cicero will reward you. With coin! Gleamy, shiny coin!"

As she came closer, her eyebrows drew together in a thoughtful frown - reminding Cicero to be on his guard. He slowly stopped his dance, and took a small step backwards. He hated it when people came too close, unless he wanted to stab them without being noticed.

She stopped, her eyes shifting from his face to his hand which he had positioned on the hilt of his blade and back to his eyes, where they locked their gaze. It was then that he became aware of her unnatural eyes. Golden eyes! Hurt and a long forgotten ache had him almost stumbling backwards. _'This cannot be… foolish Cicero seeing Ghosts of the past. No no, this cannot be. Oh mother why are you toying with me. What has sweet Cicero done that you torture me thus?_'

Clearing her throat, she nodded towards the hills, "Will be back in a few. Try to stay save." Her expression turned from pensive to smug as she looked skyward, "LOK VAHR KOOR"

He jumped in shock from the sheer power in her voice. Since when could a tiny woman yell like that? Within seconds the rain was gone and much to Cicero's relief the first stars twinkled back at him. Being quiet for once, he watched her walking up the hill until she vanished behind the first line of trees.

"Look mother. The rain is no more and soon we will be back on our way home," he cheered at the coffin. A woman with such a voice must be able to convince a brain addled farmer, he was quite certain of that now. Imaging the look of the farmer's face if she should yell at him had him cackle.

The sudden alarming sounds of fear from his horse made him stop as abruptly as he had started. The horse's ears were still pressed backwards and now it even tried to tear loose from its restraints. Slowly, while watching his surroundings, the hilt of his dagger snuggled against his palm.

"Maybe that Dunmer had still tricked him and now her friends came to rob poor Cicero," he snarled into the dark. With the mage light gone, the street lay in shadows again and he could only see something moving in the dark at high-speed. And it moved toward him on all fours.

Not moving, Cicero drew his dagger, "Want a piece of Cicero… come and get it when you're up to it." Whatever closed in made his horse reel in panic, but he would defend his precious cargo. No one would get to his mother's coffin.

A paralyzing roar came out of the dark and suddenly Cicero's legs turned to _rubber 'Oh shit… oh shit oh shit oh shit. Sweet mother protect your poor Cicero... '_

A huge wet smelly and hairy creature stopped dead in front of him, splashing dirt all across Cicero's already dirty and soaked boots. He knew that the Sanctuary he was heading for had a Speaker who could turn into a werewolf, but this one looked shaggy, unkempt and not civil at all.

Chuckling maniacally it regarded him with a lopsided grin, tongue lolling out to the right. In its left paw it held a still bleeding leg of some animal he couldn't identify. This raised the hope that he probably wasn't meant to end up as dinner. Cicero had no idea what the beast was up to nor why it had decided to grace him with its presence. Maybe it only wanted to torment him?

Visibly annoyed by the whinnying horse, the werewolf turned and grabbed the head of the animal while crooned soothingly "Kraan Drem Ov". Much to Cicero's surprise the horse relaxed, stopping its futile effort to fight against the harness. Since when could a werewolf calm down horses. Could this night become any stranger? _'Maybe Cicero is becoming demented... maybe soon I will see white rats, too...'_ he thought.

Not certain what just happened, he slowly stepped between the beast and the wagon. The last thing he wanted was a hulking werewolf damaging the coffin.

Moving back to him, the werewolf patted his shoulder with his free and hopefully clean claw. But nothing more happened. The sudden quietness made Cicero nervous. Where was that Dunmer? How long could it take to shout a brain addled farmer into the ground for a damn wheel? Next time he needed help and not getting it, he wouldn't stay his shiny sharp blade.

No one moved for several minutes, caught in a staring contest of toothy grins. He didn't even flinch as the creature brought up the bloody leg and took a hearty bite from it before offering it to him. Blood dripped on the ground, and he could smell the warm juicy scent of fresh game.

Carefully, not wanting to insult the werewolf's questionable friendly gesture he pushed the lag back, "Uh.. No thank you. Cicero is not hungry…" That was a lie and his stomach betrayed him fiercely for it. Stupid stomach, stupid sweet roll not making him well fed!

After a while watching the werewolf chewing on meat and bone until nothing was left, he became bored. What if the Dunmer was simply too scared to come any closer? How could he make the thing go away. As long as the werewolf was nearby, he couldn't leave and look for that woman.

The snout of his visitor came closer, prodding his forehead. He couldn't help the small yelp escaping his throat, and even less not to crinkle his nose. This was simply too much for his poor nose. "Shoo, away with you… you foul smelling carpet!" Then his face brightened, "Or have you come to Cicero for his famous jokes?" he asked hopefully almost preening.

Nodding the werewolf sat back on her hunches, not letting him out of sight. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. What kind of jokes would a werewolf like? Maybe a dance instead? He began to move his feet in a complicated pattern, jumping and spinning in front of his furry audience. Unfortunately the street was too wet for other tricks, or he would have performed a row of acrobatics.

The head of the werewolf tilted to the side, giving him a curious look, which he regarded more than suspiciously. Looking the whole creature over for any weaknesses, he noticed two round orbs protruding from the chest and nearly broke into sweat. _'Oh dear... what if that smelly beast is the Dunmer wench who promised to help Cicero?'_ That thought unsettling and even more crazy than him. 'Sweet mother make it go away,' he pleaded.

He rather would drag the sarcophagus all by himself than allowing some wench to make an idiot out of him.

Maybe he could find out if said creature was the long overdue Dunmer woman, "Where are my manners…" he took the Jester's cap from his head and bowed deeply before the still chewing beast. "My name is Cicero, the Fool of Hearts! And yours?" Before he could straighten himself back up entirely, two paws grabbed his head and tugged him closer to her gaping jaw.

"Noooooo!" his voice was shrill, fearing the worst. At no cost he wanted to become a thrall of Hircine. His allegiance was with the Night Mother alone.

Growling and snarling, he grabbed hold of the paws and put all his strength into, alas they didn't budge even the slightest bit. He, who hauled the heavy coffin of the Dark Mother from Cyrodiil to Skyrim couldn't even get rid of an over-sized mutt?

A long wet warm tongue went over his face leaving a trail of slobber. As quickly as the beast had grabbed him it let go of his head and started to laugh. This was far too much for his nerves.

Cicero was torn between outrage and disgust, nearly sat down into the mud. "How rude! Using your tongue and Cicero doesn't even know your name. Shame on you!"

At once Cicero went quiet, not so sure of himself anymore. Mouthing off a werewolf? This was madness, nightmarish madness and another story for his diary. Who would believe him anyways? Bragging about being licked and not eaten by a werewolf? 'Now where put Cicero his rag... can't tend mother likes this. Filthy and sticky Cicero... creepy smelly werewolf.'

"Myra!" an outraged voice shouted, "Leave him alone you rabid hyena…" rapid footsteps came closer, and the Dunmer with the golden eyes from before pushed the werewolf away who yelped in protest. "I am sorry. My sister just wants to play!"

"Maybe you should get a leash for her ... or a tight muzzle. Aaargh that smell...," he mumbled, wiping at the sticky drool and blood. "Where have you been? Cicero was worried for his poor mother! What if your sister would have decided to turn poor Cicero into a chewy toy?" he ranted.

The Dunmer directed her attention at him again but remained calm "That oaf of a farmer agreed. He will be here any minute and help you with the wagon!"

Maybe he should ask her name to thank her properly? Golden eyes or not, a little revenge for leaving him alone with that stinking mutt she called sister. Myra? His thoughts came to a sudden stop as the wagon's wood groaned in protest.

The coffin slid somewhat to the side with a loud bump. Wishing for more speed, Cicero nearly stumbled over his own feet as he darted toward the Night Mother's encasing. "Get off!" the werewolf didn't move. "I said get off! There's nothing in there for you! Only Cicero's poor dead mother," he shrieked, but it was too late.

The werewolf sat on the coffin, nose close to the wood and gave off whimpering sounds before she started to scratch at it. Either she ignored him or was too busy inspecting the wooden box beneath her paws.

"She wants to play? Oh nooo. Cicero doesn't think so. Mother's coffin is no toy!," he said angrily. "Now do something or Cicero will not pay you the shiny clinky gold coins I promised."

The Dunmer sighed, probably resigned and went over to the cart to grab her sister by one of her ears. Cicero wondered how often she had to put up with her imbecile sister like this. If she were his sister, he would have skinned her alive and turned her pelt into a nice warm cloak. Or maybe not, considering the smell she gave off.

"Myrabeth, be so kind and leave that man's coffin alone. There's no time for games... remember?" she tugged at the ear until the werewolf yelped.

The beast freed herself from her sister's grip and cocked her head into his direction, revealing a sharp array of teeth and jumped to the ground without taking her eyes off him. Uncertain if this was a grin or snarl, Cicero signaled her to stay at distance with his dagger pointing her direction. Lady werewolf or not. No one touched the unholy mother and her coffin.

"Now move it dear sister..." The woman commanded and the werewolf skulked back to the street like a well-trained dog. "I am really sorry. Sometimes she gets a bit a bit out of hand. I hope she hasn't hurt you? You've got something on your cheek."

Cicero shook his head and spread his arms.. "No. Cicero is still in one piece... see."

Turning towards the street she smiled somewhat sadly, "Good luck on your journey. I hope Loreius won't let you wait too long."

He hoped that as well. If something like that happened again, he probably would start stabbing and stabbing until whatever had annoyed him wasn't breathing anymore.

Finally he could relax a little. _'Just a bit longer and we are back on our way home mother… sweet mother. Then Cicero will oil your skin and put a dry dress on your corpse teheheeee… maybe getting some flowers too.'_

After he had handed out the promised gold, he climbed back on the wagon bidding those two weird travelers his farewell. _'…and they say that Cicero is strange…' _Waiting on the farmer and his tools, Cicero watched the Dunmer and her werewolf sister strolling out of sight.

"...dear Cicero will keep you from harm, sweet Mother. Forever and always..." he crooned softly, only to be annoyed by his growling stomach. "Patience sweet mother… soon… soon we will be home" he whispered, digging through his pouch for a carrot. _'Feeding time for poor Cicero first I think.'_

* * *

Dear Reader,

if you liked what you read so far and want to know how it continues, please review or any other signal of interest.


	2. 2 With a family and friends like these

**Note:  
**Unlike my first chapter, which was purely for introduction, the coming chapters will be always the PoV of a single character.  
This one here will be about Ashlyn's PoV

**Warning Lore/Canon:**  
Usually before I write a story and create my characters and the story around them, I do some some serious digging through Lore and Canon such as Wikis and Discussion Forums. Meaning - I try to stick as close to the Lore and Canon as possible (except I am using crossover jokes/quotes for the mere sake of fun)

So if you find stuff in my story, of which you think it's totally against Canon/Lore - Links, please ^^  
Because I found no stone chiseled facts or official "indisputable" Lore/Canon standing against what I am using in my story - even the books inside of the Games very often contradict each other =P

**Chapter 2 - With family and friends like these...**

**Ashlyn - Ivarstead**

It was hard to tell how long Ashlyn had been hiding inside the bushes, waiting for her target to show up. The night had come clouded, heavy with the dark promise of icy winds and wet snow. The mere thought of it made her shudder. Plenty of burs had attached themselves to her cloak, and to her horror some beetles had dared to seek shelter inside the hemp of her sleeves. Crawlies and she didn't get along very well.

Who in Sithis' name had performed the Black Sacrament on a harmless nutcase?

'_What if I refuse to kill someone who couldn't even hurt a skeever caught stealing cheese? I really don't want to become the_ laughingstock _of the Dark Brotherhood.' _Ashlyn thought, hoping her sister wasn't asleep.

There were no words for how much she envied her sister, who also had the better contracts and now was snug and warm in bed with some guy wrapped around her like a blanket. A bit of reflected languorous warmth tingling down her nerves wasn't simply the same as the real thing. And this contract wasn't the real thing, either.

Myrabeth thoughts were a bit sluggish, though they didn't hide her sister's irritation,'_Stab him in the eye and he will drop dead before he even realized what just happened. It's what we do, it's that simple.' _

Ashlyn sighed, not having expected such harsh words from her sister, '_Easy for you to say. You don't get nicknames like roast beef and midnight snack. Besides, I feel somewhat sorry for that poor sot.'_

_Myrabeth gave her one of her infamous mental stinkeye, 'Eh? You never had a conscience before, so don't start having one now!'_'

_'Don't be ridiculous! He's harmless and crazy - killing him is a bad joke on my behalf. '_ Ashlyn protested

'_By Sithis' balls! Do you have the mopes now?' _Myrabeth's thoughts were tinted with worry. '_It's because of that necrophile fool, again, is it? Gods, I swear I should have eaten him before you had a chance to take a closer look at his face. One last time - humans don't live that long and he didn't even look anything like that chubby newspaper courier from our childhood.' _

Ashlyn drew her eyebrows together, having a hard time not to hiss audibly_, 'Stop badgering me about this, will you? The jester simply reminded me of someone I knew and cared about,' _she had to exhale slowly, to keep that ferocious growl inside her, _This here is different and I swear by the Dread Father if someone's backbiting because of this - I am going to stab his guts until there is no blood left to shed.'_

'_Whatever… now let me sleep, yes?'_

A desperate call came from deeper inside the trees cut through the night, "_Reyda! Reyyyyda!" _

Ashlyn almost jumped out of her boots. '_Note to myself. No bickering with siblings while on the hunt!'_

She prepared a muffle spell while her left hand closed around the ornate hilt of Mehrunes' Razor. The mockery this contract would earn her galled Ashlyn immensely. A quick cut across the throat and Narfi would never ever cry for his sister, again and setting Ashlyn's teeth on edge.

With closed eyes and slowed breath, Ashlyn fully opened her senses to her surroundings. Here and there were a few rodents hiding in their burrow and some night bird preying on a hare. No signs of anyone else close by, which, considering the shitty weather would have surprised her had it been any different.

On silent soles, she followed the unkempt man through the underbrush toward his house and almost her head on a low hanging branch when Narfi stopped to bewail the sky, _"I can't see you, Reyda! I can't find you! Why are you hiding? Hiding, hide, hide, hide! Don't make me sad!" _Ashlyn cringed at his voice, tempted to cover her ears.

With a powerful leap, she launched herself at the rambling man ready to put him out of his misery. Now or never and onward to ridiculousness. The wind began to pick up force turning into a fierce frothing storm. A searing bright flash split the darkness around her and Ashlyn found herself frozen in mid-air.

"What the fuck?" she gasped before her lips, too, became immobilized, not believing what just happened.

"Tsktsk, is this a proper way treating my subjects? Who is going to worship ol' Sheogorath, if I allow my mongrels to decimate their ranks?" a droning voice from behind scolded.

"Why do old people always have to get in the way?" Ashlyn pressed through her clenched teeth and had a rather painful date with the hard pine needle covered ground.

The elderly man came closer, bent down and grabbed Ashlyn by the ear pulling her upwards, "Bad manners, as always. Show some respect whelp." When she stood on her toes, he tugged harder. "You could at least have asked if he was available for culling… I would still have said no, mind you. But you could have asked!"

Still being held in place by by her captured ear, Ashlyn only managed a wince, "If I don't put him out of his misery I will risk the wrath of Sithis!"

"Nonsense! Sithis is a slowpoke incapable of appreciating the beauty of madness. I have never seen him attending any of our parties... actually, we never invited him." Sheogorath pinched her already pounding ear even harder while he moved toward Narfi "Now put that cheese slicer away - can't you see that I already have granted him mercy?"

Ashlyn snorted almost expecting another pull, "You call that delusion about his sister mercy? Not that I really care, but I call this madness. Now show some mercy to me and let go of my ear, pretty please?"

If her grandfather kept her like that any longer, she either would end up with a cramp in her toes or one ear longer than the other.

Sheogorath gave her a pondering look and finally let go of her maltreated ear, putting one arm around Ashlyn's shoulders, "Don't be such a party pooper." He drew her closer while pointing his cane with the other hand at the frozen Narfi, "Madness is a bitter mercy, perhaps, but a mercy none the less. A lesson you still suffer to learn I fear - blood of my blood. But there's hope at the horizon... yes, there always is and maybe one day I will invite you to one my tea parties. Wouldn't that be marvelously insane, bringing our small family together and having a strawberry torte? I got fresh entrails, too."

Ashlyn passed him a doubtful glance, "Well, when I return to the Dark Brotherhood without having fulfilled my contract I won't be around long enough being invited to anything except my own funeral. Plus, I hate strawberry torte!"

"Don't talk such rot, it makes my teeth itch!" Her grandfather released the human from his spell, "Just let your grandfather take care of this, aaaaaand here we go." he drawled and magically produced Wabbajack with one of his theatrical gestures.

A few heartbeats later, a billy goat stood in Narfi's place, bleating at them almost accusingly before it lowered its head in her direction. Her grandfather seemed quite rapt with his little trick, and not the slightest bit worried about those pointy horns.

Eying the Narfi-goat suspiciously, Ashlyn moved slightly behind her grandfather, "A billy goat? You can't be serious? I thought you want him alive and not ending as cutlet."

"Serious? Me? Never! Don't insult me," Then his voice turned into a dark dead serious baritone, "Well, sometimes I am. But not this time, I assure you… this is pure egoistic pragmatism. Where do you think all the wonderful cheese comes from? One can never have enough cheese! Oh. Now I am hungry. Thank you very much."

Ashlyn simply couldn't help it. Looking at the male animal and listening to her grandfather musing about all kinds of cheese, she had to burst into an almost painful guffaw, "I really want to see the cheese you're getting out of that milk…"

**Ashlyn – Whiterun**

"FUS RO DAH!" and the chicken went flying, followed by buckets, apples and other clutter people had dropped on the walkway. A dog squeezed his tail between his shivering legs and only dared a rather weak snarl at Ashlyn. Flashing a brilliant snarl back at the mutt, he ran off with a pitiful whimper.

It felt good to be home, although it would be a short lived homecoming. With a smirk on her lips she walked through the streets, remembering how her sister and she chased through the streets, startling everyone with their shouts. The guards had given up warning them off long ago. It had been pure bliss scaring the shit out of chicken and dogs, while annoyed peasants tried to keep out of their wake.

Still smiling, Ashlyn took the stairs to Breezehome and stopped dead, holding her breath as she listened to the not very welcoming sounds seeping through the wooden door.

The smile turned into a thin angry line before it fell entirely from her face. She could make out a high pitched screech of protest from her foster daughter Lucia, some man who angrily replied and Lydia apparently trying to keep the situation under control with her usual calm voice.

'_What has that little toad done this time?_' she thought with resignation and pushed open the door. "What's going on here? Can't I go on a business trip without having to worry about a family drama?" Ashlyn's voice sent an audible shiver through the house, everyone ducked for a split second.

Barely inside, Ashlyn caught Lydia's pleading look, while she tried to keep a growling Redguard from getting any farther inside the living area. "My Thane, finally! The last weeks have been a nightmare… there has been an incident with Braith again."

Her foster daughter stood, with a wicked looking dagger in her hands, inside the gap between her room and the cupboard of the kitchen. From the depths of her eyes shone fury and ferocious fear one would have only expected from a cornered animal, but not a child. That must have been a hell of an incident her fosterling had with Braith.

As the intruder turned at her, she recognized Amren. The one she had helped to get his sword back, when she had been new to the town. From the look on his face, Lucia most likely had one of her clashes with his bully of a daughter.

"Would anyone care to tell me what's going on or do I have to wait until the two of you are done being at each other throats?" she asked sourly, then pointed at her fosterling.

The Redguard went quiet and his shoulder slumped, "Dragonborn…" licked his lips nervously. He knew too well of what she was capable, when miffed. "Your daughter has attacked and wounded my Braith. They're both no angels, but this time Lucia went too far."

"Not true! Braith set my hair on fire and I just scratched that stupid cow a little to make her stop…" howled Lucia, but went silent the moment Ashlyn gave her a very dark frown.

"How can you allow a child carrying a real weapon? You have a responsibility as a parent!" the Red Guard accused.

Amren had a point. How had the girl managed to palm the dagger from Myrabeth's strongbox? She eyed the weapon carefully, but didn't recognize it. Then again, her sister had so many nasty looking daggers, hence she always kept a tight leash on her murdering tools and no one had shown her fosterling how to pick a lock, yet.

Ignoring his complaint, she turned at the shivering girl, "Lucia. Give me the dagger." Ashlyn said, holding out her hand. But Lucia didn't budge. "I am not repeating myself!"

The child still didn't move. Unnerved Ashlyn impatiently snatched the weapon from Lucia, before something worse could happen.

Lydia shook her head, visibly ashamed, "I am so sorry. I had no idea she had one of your blades hidden in her skirt. I will bear full responsibility for what happened."

"Amren. I don't know what to say." Ashlyn sighed in resignation. "All I can offer is to punish Lucia accordingly, and pay amends for the damage she did."

Brows creased in displeasure, Amren regarded her coldly, "I do not want amends from you! Such things shouldn't happen at all. The girl needs a stern hand guiding her."

Lucia kicked against the cupboard, "That's not fair. She burns my hair and I get the blame."

"What about your little escapade at the stables," Lydia asked. "Care to tell how you came to that? Was it your invisible friend Tristan again who told you to steal the dagger from your aunt's chest?"

Ashlyn eyed her daughter fuming carefully. "Care to elaborate? Who is Tristan?"

Amren growled, "That's her imaginary friend she keeps using as excuse for her transgressions."

"My Thane, do you really want to hear this? It's a rather long and embarrassing list. The Jarl already threatened to reinstate the pillory if she keeps up with her pranks," Lydia sighed, before she sat down and rubbed her face.

Leaning against one of her weapon racks, Ashlyn nodded. "I am a strong woman… so hit me."

Lydia gave her a very uncomfortable look, "Alright. But you better sit down. Four weeks ago she stole bee hives and released them at the temple of Kynareth. Another time she untied the horses and rode naked through the street, while hooting Ragnar the Red. Not to mention her constant pilfering of sweet rolls and garden flowers. Last week she goaded Braith into burning the haystacks at the Pelagia farm to impress some boy and well, I think that's the reason why the two of them got into each other's hair today."

When Lydia had finished almost an hour later, Ashlyn found no words to express her surprise without affronting Amren. That was indeed a long list of pranks her little Lucia had performed. If this hadn't been Skyrim, full with superstitious and stern no-nonsense nords, she actually would have laughed her ass off and thrown a party for the little toad. But this was Skyrim and not Sheoth.

'_Myra, I am sorry to bother you… but have you just picked up what I just heard?' _Ashlyn asked, hoping her sister would confirm her hunch.

'_I have. Give her a hug and a big long smooch from me. I am so proud of her!' _Myrabeth's mind almost brimmed with mirth, '_I know what you think, but I don't think the old fart actually took finally an interest in our little crosspatch. Just because you have adopted her, doesn't make her a part of our family in his eyes… you know how eccentric he is,'_ her sister replied.

If it hadn't been their grandfather, who then? Lost in thought, she almost forgot everyone around her. Maybe some homeless boy who used Lucia as a tool of revenge on the cruel harsh world?

She would ask her grandfather, nonetheless. Who else, if not the God of Madness, could entice a child to do such things? '_Riding naked through the streets… my ass.' _Ashlyn heaved a sigh. Not even her sister had come up with that one back at Cyrodiil.

Myrabeth gave her sister a mental hug, '_Don't worry. We'll find the culprit. And if he doesn't exist… maybe it's time to consider her as a real part of our little brain damaged family?'_

"My Thane?" Lydia asked.

"Sorry. I have to think. This is really a bit too much to take in." Ashlyn answered, drawing her attention back at the matter at hand. "So? No one has seen this Tristan?"

Amren shook his head, "No. No one did. Isn't it obvious? The girl needs attention, and because her mother is never at home, she invents a friend only she can see."

'_Yeah, rub it in…' _Ashlyn thought sourly, but kept er face straight when she addressed her fosterling "What do you have to say for yourself?"

'_Rub what in?'_ Myrabeth's puzzled mind fluttered.

'_Not you… see you in Falkreath sis.'_

'_You really need a good rubbing…_' Myrabeth teased and went silent and Ashlyn had to resist rolling her eyes at the sentiment.

"Well sweetheart. Why have you stolen the dagger?" Ashlyn asked, trying to remain calm.

"Tristan made me do it. He said I am no fun at all and I won't have any friends unless I show some spine…" Lucia groused, but said no more.

Not in the mood to deal with a sulking brat right now, Ashlyn pointed at Lucia's room, "Alright… you don't want to come clean? Then get in there and don't show your ass in here until I tell you to. We talk later, when you have come to your senses."

Waiting, until the door to Lucia's room fell into its lock with a loud bang, she offered Amren a chair near the fireplace. "This won't happen again. Rest assured of that."

Amren snorted in disbelief, "How? You're never at home. A child needs a stern hand and constant guidance. You heard what happened during your absence."

"I am aware of that and that's why I am taking Lucia with me when I leave for my new home in Falkreath" Ashlyn explained, feeling very tired now.

She had planned to fake her death, and leave everything behind for Lydia and Lucia. The Housecarl would have been a far better foster parent and mentor than she would ever be. All she had to offer was a dangerous life among crazy Daedra, thieves and killer. She loved the girl and never regretted having taken her in, but the recent events made Ashlyn dreaded it at the same time. The child, a mere human without any defensive skills, could become very quickly a victim of their crazy world and aquaintances.

Lydia's eyes expressed uncertainty, "I don't understand, my Thane?"

Ashlyn gave her Housecarl a reassuring smile, "Don't worry my friend. I will transfer the ownership of Breezehome to you, before I leave. Whiterun has been good to my family, but I can't honour my position as a Thane any longer and it wouldn't be fair to you in the long run."

"I am sworn to protect you with my life, my Thane. Where you go, I go!" Lydia said matter of fact.

It both warmed and pained her to hear this. Lydia was a good and loyal soul, always calm and never fussed about all the crazy things she had to endure with her and Myrabeth around. They had fought dragon's fire, pillaged crawlies infested dungeons and stole mammoth cheese from the giants. Lydia had helped her with Mehrunes' Razor, and not even fussed once over killing that snivelling wannabe demon worshipper. For that Ashlyn would always be grateful.

But the path she had to follow out of love for her twin sister, was one she had to walk without Lydia and the Companions. Ashlyn heavily doubted the Dark Brotherhood would tolerate someone who wasn't a member of their little family, not even a dear friend. Having Lucia around was already a huge risk, a liability that will most likely turn into a royal pain biting her in the ass real hard.

With no warning whatsoever the room suddenly began to sway and spin in front Ashlyn's eyes. Two strong hands quickly came forward grabbing her by the shoulders, "Dragonborn..."

She had been up for almost two days and very little rest, no wonder her body gave up on her. "Please, let us sit down before I drop on my nose and make a fool out of myself. Come on Amren, you can let go of me and stop glowering. Let's have some ale while we find an appropriate solution. Yes?"

The evening stretched deep into the early morning hours and Ashlyn's eyes were so heavy, it became harder and harder to follow the dialogue.

Much had happened in her absence, and a lot of it had a disturbing undertone. Most of all, the story about this Tristan guy turned out to be a real mood killer.

Ashlyn had no doubt that Lucia was telling the truth in this matter, because her fosterling was far too stubborn and aggressive to lie about her doings. Lucia carried a painfully stupid pride in what she did, even if it called for a good trashing afterwards.

Someone had meddled in her family affairs, and she even couldn't hold it against Lydia. The woman was only human and had not the slightest idea who she was serving as Housecarl. Ashlyn had never told her about her heritage. Nords loathed Daedra and everything connected to magic and even if Lydia would show acceptance, she would draw the hate of the others at her.

**oooOOooo**

Everyone was helping her with her relocation project, except Lucia. Three days had passed, and her fosterling had still the audacity to sulk and accusing her of being a mean spinster. Ashlyn was in a terrible mood. The ominous Tristan hadn't shown up either. One thing was for certain. If one of her brothers or sisters from the Thieves Guild was responsible for this mess – heads would roll and she would dance on their flayed skins.

Farkas tapped Ashlyn's shoulder, "Got the cart for you. I took the one with the cover, should it rain."

Leaning her forehead against the door frame, she closed her eyes. "Thank you Farkas. I think two more crates, and I am done here."

Right now she was busy getting that little brat out of her room without damaging the door. Ashlyn couldn't leave her old friend a damaged interior just because she couldn't handle a child. "Lucia, do you hear me?"

Time wasn't something she had in abundance right now, thanks to Astrid's tight schedule. One week she had said, was all Ashlyn and Myrabeth would have getting their private life sorted out. It made her wish that the need to move hadn't arisen. Now she had to deal with it.

"We don't have time for this!" Ashlyn tried again, „If you don't move your carcass out of that room in an instant and help packing up your things, I am going to scorch your beetle collection. Do you hear me?"

"Go away! I hate you." came from the other side of the door. Maybe tearing down the door wasn't a too bad idea, after all?

Exasperated by so much defiance, Ashlyn slammed her fist against the locked door, "I mean it! You're still too young to have girl troubles and anger issues…"

From behind came muffled laughter, "Maybe you should try a sweet roll to lure her out."

Lydia's eyebrows shot up, "Are you out of your mind Vilkas? The girl needs a good spanking and not a reward!"

"Be my guest," Ashlyn snarled at Lydia, which made Vilkas laugh hard and almost topple over the fireplace.

"Let me talk to her. You're too agitated" Farkas whispered, slowly pulling Ashlyn away from the door. He looked over his back and said, "She reminds me of Vilkas when he had one of his hissy fits… I know how to deal with that."

Grateful for his offer, Ashlyn patted his hand. "You have no idea how much I will miss you Farkas."

"You're welcome sister. And. Uh… don't tell Vilkas about what I said, yes?" the huge Nord smiled down at her sheepishly. "Vilkas still has his hissy fits, sometimes."

Pulling his head down, Ashlyn planted a kiss on his unshaved cheek, "Don't you worry about that. Now get her out of there. If you should decide to bite off her head, I won't mind. But make sure you wrap it up for later use."

How he managed to stay emotionally balanced all the time, completely unruffled by temper tantrums, childish displays of aggression between Njada and Athis or unfair remarks of his brother was a mystery Ashlyn never had been able to solve. Farkas was simply Farkas and she would truly miss that old crabber.

Going through a list of things she still had to buy, Ashlyn went upstairs to check on the more private possessions she didn't want anyone else to touch. Luckily they never had many possessions, except for some hoarded jewellery, books and weapons and she was grateful for this circumstance. Most of the crates she would take with her were filled with raw materials and ingredients for their crafts and only a very few contained clothes and weapons.

Upstairs, she opened the door to their bedroom and almost fell backwards on her butt as the musty stench of old air and something decaying hit her in the nose. Her eyes scanned the room, but everything looked clean and tidy. No footsteps. Nothing tussled or moved.

"By Sithis…" she hissed, pinching her nose shut and went for the nearest window. Had Lucia hidden a dead Falmer in here?

Breathing through her mouth, she opened the chest at her side of the bed and got through her belongings. A few of those would remain with Lydia, like the Axe of Whiterun and the heavy dragon bone armor. Only Sithis knew why her sister had kept insisting on making one of those heavy clunky things.

One piece after another, she emptied the chest, placing everything on the bed, folded clothes and sorted amulets until the glint of black metal on a black silken cloth caught her eye.

Over two hundred years ago, an ebony dagger and a black cloak, both bearing the insignia of the Black Horse Courier, had been given to Ashlyn at her twenty-sixth birthday. It had been a rather unusual gift, but the message behind it had been quite clear to her – friendship and trust.

She reached inside the chest, feeling for the cloak and found that the cloth was still in a very good shape. If the cold temperatures and the weather hadn't been so unforgiving in this god forsaken place, she would not have hesitated to wear it.

With a sigh, Ashlyn stuck her nose into the soft fabric for a few moments before putting the cloak behind her on the bed. For now it would be stored along with her other valued keepsakes. Perhaps, one day, she could find herself a trustworthy tailor, who could upgrade it into a somewhat warmer version.

Turning back the chest, she picked up the ebony blade and couldn't help the fond memories flooding her with images of a happier time. It had been her first real weapon and a reliable friend for so many years that she couldn't even remember why she had it hidden away along with her other treasures. Lovingly she traced the insignia on the worn leather sheath and smiled with relief to find it still unblemished.

Without hesitation Ashlyn removed Mehrunes' Razor from her belt and replaced the soul stealing weapon with the reclaimed ebony blade. A few enchantments cast on it, and she would put it to good use again, soon.

After she was done with her side, she moved over to take care of her sister's belongings. Bending over her the nightstand, she had to gag at the stench wafting up at her from under the bed. She almost had forgotten her sister's morbid treasure and judging by the smell it most likely had liquefied itself by now. No wonder the open window hadn't been any help here.

Holding her breath, she went down on her knees and reached into the darkness. A wooden box connected with the tips of her fingers, and Ashlyn strained farther under the bed until she got hold of a small rope attached to the box.

Her lungs began to burn from lack of air, but Ashlyn refused to inhale the stink the Hagraven head gave off through the wood. Carefully, she removed the top of the box, expecting the worst and let out a disgusted girlish window shattering shriek which sent the box skittering across the floor.

The disgust of its content had her paralyzed and shivering. Maggots! Tiny little squirmy maggots! Why hadn't her sister listened and put some more ice wraith teeth into the box before leaving. Tempted to kick at the box, she slowly slid backwards on her butt until she hit the wall.

Given her past, no one could really call her mincing. Plenty of giant spiders and chaurus had found their death through dagger, staves and fireballs. She had bathed in blood, slept on entrails and between mummies. But all those tiny itty bitty wormy creepers, they had her running and screaming like a little child in an instant.

From downstairs, she heard a weapon being drawn and quick steps coming toward her room. Ashlyn only could hope that it wasn't Vilkas. He had a tendency to keep rubbing in the most embarrassing moments, until it wasn't funny anymore. And knowing Farkas she wouldn't be allowed killing him for it.

Aela came inside the room, holding her nose, "What happened?" As she looked down at Ashlyn, her eyebrows drew together into a frown, "What's that in the box; fish bait?"

"Maggots…" Ashlyn breathed through her teeth and pointed at the box.

"Don't be such a baby," Aela groaned and picked the box up giving it a probing look before she turned back to the stairs. "I'll toss it into the forge before it stinks up the whole house."

Ashlyn scrambled to her feet. "Don't. Myra asked me to bring it with me."

"Alright sister! You take care of it now, or there won't be much left. That fish bait looks dangerously fierce and hungry!" the huntress explained with a smirk and put box back on the table.

Not having a choice, Ashlyn grabbed the box with outstretched hands, propped the lit on it and moved downstairs. Maybe she should Lucia take care of it as some sort of punishment. That would teach her to refuse her elders.

**Ashlyn - Falkreath**

Fast asleep and curled deeply into her furs, Ashlyn dreamt of howling werewolves riding on gigantic rolling cheese wheels through crowded streets of Hackdirt, led by a prancing Sheogorath who had a dagger swinging Lucia sitting on his shoulders.

Cheerful naked figures seamed their path, dancing, rutting, feasting and waving at the absurd cortege, while the swishing blades cut through their throats and limbs. One after another fell, the streets ran red with blood and entrails but the shrill laughter and moans of bliss never ceased.

It was arousing madness, dementia and mania in perfect harmony celebrating a blood-stained orgy. Something meant to never happen again. A deep rumbling growl of frustration escaped her throat as her sweaty body went rigid, welcoming the slowly spreading wave building up inside deep inside her until she shattered. Ashlyn's eyes shot open and narrowed the moment she realized that it just had been a dream. Slightly disoriented, she lay there in her cold bedroom in Falkreath, panting hard for several long moments.

"Now, that looked like one hell of a wicked orgasm," a bemused voice rasped into her ear.

With an outraged gnarl Ashlyn rolled around, facing an impertinently grinning Daedra staring back at her. "Sanguine! I should have figured. Only you can come up with dirty dreams of that magnitude. What the heck are you doing here and how did you get in here?"

Feeling an itch in her hand, she formed a fist ready to break his nose if his answer wouldn't please her.

Sanguine's dark lips curled back to a flashy grin, "I'll take that and your previous display of unbridled passion as a compliment." Her fist surged forward aiming for his face, but ended in his hand, "Missed me that much my dear?"

"If I say no, will you go away? I haven't summoned you, and I do not like the naughty uncle in my bed…" she muttered and withdrew her hand. "And I am still mad at you!"

Propping his head against his hand, he regarded her with shameless interest, "My my, you're a feisty one holding a grudge that long. Don't you want to know what I have to say, before you go all crosspatch over my sorry hide?"

Searing hot chunk of Daedra meat or not, she didn't trust his agenda when it was about doing something for him. And he was always up to something, let it be party, bloodshed and then party, or getting drunk, bloodshed and then a bloody orgy. Whenever that oversized boozing party whore was involved, things went out of hand quickly and in the end she had all the troubles and none of the fun.

"First, I want you to explain why you're in my room, in my bed with your clothes on and most of all, with your dirty boots on!" Ashlyn pointed out, poking her index finger into his chest along with each spoken word.

Before she could withdraw her hand again, he snatched it back and held it close to his chest. "Can't an old friend of the family visit without being snarled at?" The smug grin on his tattooed face really screamed for a deftly placed fist.

"Old friends don't intrude. They either wait for invitation or ask for permission! Now out with it, what do you want? My sister and I can't be that entertaining…" she complained and yanked her hand out of his, ignoring the sharp claws cutting into her skin.

With one arm coming around her hip, he hunched Ashlyn closer against his bulky frame and nipped at her neck "Solitude's Queen intends to cancel the annual Burning of King Olaf this summer. We can't let happen, can we? The Lord of Debauchery wants his party, a spectacular party and you two will make that happen for good old uncle Sanguine. Am I right?"

Without even thinking about any consequences, her body yielded against him and feeling the blatant arousal pressing against her butt-crack, she was torn between expressing violent protest and her own need to tear his clothes off.

In this form he was a sight to behold, all black skin and hair, his facial crimson tattoo and the horns adorning his head were a real turn on. She really liked him better this way.

"Does it involve doing dirty things with you?" she purred, and almost hoped he would say yes.

"What if I said yes?" he murmured against her throat which she answered with an inviting wiggle of her backside against his codpiece.

Sanguine face brightened against her nape and he lost not much time getting out of his clothes and back into her bed where she pinched his taut front, "I see you lost some weight. Where has that paunch gone to?"

His laugh was low as he slipped under the furs and settled snug between her legs, "Too much battle and the latest parties haven't been up to my standards. But! Some good food, wine or beer could change that. I don't even know what good beer tastes like, anymore. Got some for me?"

"No wine or beer for you this time – you owe me that much!" she growled up at him and enjoyed the face he made.

Slightly crestfallen, let his head slump down between her breasts and sighed "And they say I am cruel…Damn you wench, you're going to ruin my reputation!"

Grabbing his horns, she pulled him close so she could look him deep into his black abysmal eyes, "I want you sober and your full attention. Not like last time when we both ended up barfing all night. I'll bet you had that wine spiked with something nasty just for the sake of annoying me."

His horns still in her grip, he stared back at her one eyebrow arched, "You're not holding that still against me, are you?"

As she felt something warm and sticky spreading above her navel, he cocked her a cheeky grin, which she answered with a mean sneer, "You sly bastard…" and began to rub the soft skin of her belly up and down his erection, eliciting grunts and hissing sounds from him.

"Slow down woman!" he groaned and bit down on her collarbone, but it didn't stop her teasing him.

Now that was more like it. A complacent smile tugged at her lips each time his body flexed and flinched at the friction. It was so crooked, and so damn rewarding to see his features twisted in bliss that it took all her will not to squeal in delight. It was rare enough to see him sober, and now having him all for herself made it all the better.

As if Sanguine had read her mind, his arms moved around her neck and underneath her arched back while his lips and tongue traced along the edge of her jaw, up to her ears and down her nape until she couldn't stop the keening moans from escaping her throat.

The rasp of his rough tongue and sharp fangs against her sensitive skin set every nerve ending on fire and nearly pushed her over the edge as his clawed fingers traced the slope of her ass and grounded her moist warmth against his hard length. The old bastard definitely knew how to drive a woman insane.

"Keep that up and I am going to incinerate…" she pressed through clenched teeth and bucked against him, his oozing tip only slipping in ever so slightly.

Sanguine's sharp fangs sank painfully deep into her shoulder, "I'll drive you mad first…then you can incinerate."

They repeated the little game several times, yet every time she came up to meet him, Sanguine gave her a dirty smirk and jerked out of reach. Frustrated and deprived, she clawed at his buttocks.

He looked down at her with greedy calculating eyes, but didn't budge "Getting antsy, huh?"

"Stop torturing me!" she breathed, and dug her nails deeper into his butt cheeks when he closed his mouth over hers.

Hungrily she responded to his kiss. They struggled against each other, fought like ravenous cats for the upper hand; leaving bite and scratch marks all over their bodies, until Ashlyn managed to straddle his hips and pinning him back down into her bed.

His black eyes stared up at her, not leaving her face once while she lost herself in the ecstasy of the moment, allowing her hips to surge forward, rocking and twisting sliding over his hardness forth and back. As Sanguine gripped her hips with both hands and pushed her down onto him in one hard stroke, she had to stifle a carnal growl of ecstasy.

Myrabeth's mental warning and frantic calls from downstairs had her freeze, and as she picked up quick footsteps coming up towards her room they both held their breath and stopped moving.

"Don't tell me you haven't locked the door…" he asked, in an almost bemused tone.

The door flung open, hitting the wall behind it with a loud shuddering bang and Ashlyn would have jumped out of bed like someone who had been caught red handed, if Sanguine hadn't kept her in a tight grip on top of him.

"Shit" she cursed, drawing the only left fur around her hips.

"Mom… I heard... eeeewww," Lucia started, but broke off and stared with big disgusted eyes at them.

Ashlyn asked sourly, "What happened to knocking, before entering one's bedroom?"

Sanguine now visibly amused, he burst into a severe guffaw, "Don't be such a hypocrite. I haven't knocked nor did I ask if I can come in…" Ashlyn punched him in the shoulder. This wasn't funny. She had been so close, and the weeks of depravation had already turned her into a soft brained simpering fool.

Myrabeth stumbled into the room, hauling the girl into her arms, "I am soooo sorry. I tried to stop her from coming up here."

Why did such things always happen to her? Why couldn't she simply have a good time without any kind of distraction, interruption and disruption?

Lucia's mouth opened and closed a few times before she found her voice again, but when she did her arm rose and she pointed at the Daedra, "What are you doing in my mom's bed, Tristan?"

Tristan? Ashlyn looked down at Sanguine through narrowed eyes. "You are Tristan?"

He only gave her a lopsided grin "Oops!"

"You paedophile bastard! Oops? I'll show you Oops" her roar shook the house, and somewhere in the neighbourhood several dogs started to bark.

Not looking the slightest bit guilty, Sanguine shrugged at her, "Now calm down. I can explain… it's not what you think."

She hated that phrase! Not thinking twice or wasting time on words, Ashlyn flew into a rage, clawing and hitting at him. She would give him the trashing of his life and if that wasn't enough, she would cut off his balls and stuff them up his ass. The thought of how close he had gotten because she had been sexually deprived and brain addled made her angry.

From the corner of her eyes she saw her sister scooping up a befuddled and shocked Lucia, Knowing that her fostering was safe, she turned her blazing glare back at Sanguine who pushed her off him and took flight without even reaching for his pants.

She followed him outside the house, cursing at the tiny sharp pebbles biting into her feet, but not willing to slow down. She didn't care that it was cold; she didn't care about the barking dogs and a lone beggar throwing fearsome looks at them.

The story of a naked and hysterical laughing Daedra and shouting Dunmer running through the streets of Falkreath would live on for centuries, Ashlyn was dead certain of that.

"WULD NAH KEST" power surged through and up her body, pushing her forward but not close enough to jump Sanguine, who ran faster than a wine barrel rolled downhill.

The dragon in her roared to life, her blood boiled with fury as she marked him for death, "KRII LUN AUS"

"Are you insane woman?" Sanguine panted, barely managing to evade her clawing hands.

"I'll send you back to your shit hole, and kill you over and over again when you show your ass here again," Ashlyn raged.

By Sithis she would tear him to shreds and dominate him as it befit a Dovah and then she would feast dance on his entrails until her deadric side was satisfied. And if that wasn't enough, she would perform the Black Sacrament on him herself.

Still not in reach she bellowed in frustrated anger, "FUS RO DAH"

That had him flying. His large frame came down with a pained grunt between a couple of winter berry bushes. Ashlyn took that chance and pounced on his back, pummelling his shoulders with her fists, clawing at his already bruised skin.

Sanguine's body was still tremoring with heavy laughter and before she became aware of his intend, he had her pinned beneath his now much heavier form. All air drained from her lungs, making it harder to breath and fighting him off. She was much stronger than most mortals and even most dremora. But a daedric Lord was another story.

"Stop that nonsense, you're only going to break your pretty hands," he snapped and captured both her hands by the wrists. "You're damn lucky to call that old geezer Sheogorath your grandsire or I would kill you right here and save your body for my next feast!"

Still enraged she spat, "You pervert, you molested my daughter!"

"Wrong! Your little girl performed an ittty bitty little ritual to have me summoned," he growled back at her. "I don't do children. But knowing that she's your brat it made me curious and so I answered her call."

Seeing stars, her body slackened and she let her head drop back to the ground, "Why the hell would she call upon the Lord of Debauchery? She's too young for booze, sex and not to mention your bloodied parties…"

Giving her a long probing glance, he slowly exhaled and shifted his body a little. "It wasn't anything like that. She wanted a friend that wouldn't mock her constantly and so I let her playing pranks on everyone in return. She was really good at it. She even managed what your sister didn't… stealing a goat from a giant."

"And you expect me to believe that?" she asked with disbelief. "Nords don't take such affronts lightly. How could you promise Lucia a friend and let her make enemies of those who live around her?"

Sanguine propped his forehead against hers, "I hate being sober and having to explain myself. That's so not entertaining."

"Answer my question," Ashlyn bit at his nose.

Nudging her head back, he dared a small smile "I wanted to give her one of my artefacts, the usual thing for making me laugh. Before you start biting and scratching again; it would have been a lesser version summoning a very obedient lesser dremora."

Head-butting him she scolded, "You have nerves. Do you even realize how much stress that has caused? The girl will be traumatized for the rest of her life after what she had seen... she doesn't know that her foster family is not entirely mortal!"

"Will you stop attacking me, if I promise to make up for the trouble? I am good at massages." he gave her his most charming smile.

Ashlyn pushed at his heavy chest, "Get off me, I can't breathe."

Slowly, he moved off her and before she could scramble out of his reach Sanguine dragged her back on his lap for warmth. "Better?"

"Somewhat. Though I am still freezing my ass off out here" she said and huddled closer against his hot skin. The twigs and dry leaves biting into her tender skin weren't exactly comfortable. "Why the heck haven't you told us about this? You should have known better than doing this behind our backs."

He shrugged, "Dunno. I haven't really given it much thought; I rarely do to be honest. It was a real fun show she delivered and even the old man was impressed from what I heard."

"She's a human child, for crying out loud, and off limits for you from now on. Do you hear me?" Ashlyn freed herself from his embrace and scrambled to her feet. "Now come inside. It's cold here and my backside is covered with forest litter."

Before she could turn to walk back to her house, he got hold of her left hand and tugged her back into his arms. "Not so fast. We have still unfinished business..:"

Biting back a mean comment, she turned her face at him. "I think I'll pass today."

Both his hands came up and clutched against his chest, his voice sounding theatrically hurt "You break my heart. But no! I was talking about my little task for you in Solitude. I want you and your sister to go there and make that festival happen. There hasn't been a decent party in ages and it would be a real shame if that royal hussy of a queen cancels the Burning of King Olaf out of some lousy notion about her butchered bloke."

Cocking her head, she thought for a moment and then smiled sweetly. "Alright! But what was that about making up for the crap you did? You owe me now thrice… two botched nights of promised passion and messing with my daughter."

Visibly annoyed, he let his shoulders slump, "What do you want?"

Putting one finger on her lips, she cocked her head at him "How about your not-quite-holy staff?"

His lips crooked as he came closer, "I thought you'll pass on that today?"

Ashlyn glared at him menacingly, "You know quite well what I am talking about."

"Are you sure it's what you truly want this time? The rose comes with a price, you know" Sanguine's voice grew serious and thoughtful. "Last time you emptied a whole barrel of very good and rare beer over my head for even considering you as bearer and I am not used to handing over my artefacts just like that."

Ashlyn shook her head and snorted, "Since when do you care if people have thought things through before interacting with you?"

"Well, interacting with the two of you requires careful thinking from my side, if I want to keep my balls intact," Sanguine frowned first, but after a few moments his face cheered up "So, if I give you my pretty rose, will you and your sister become my champions of sinful pleasures and spread chaos and merriment in this world?"

Freezing and barely capable to keep her teeth from clattering Ashlyn nodded "Aren't we doing that already? Now hand it over before I turn into an ice statue."

With a lazy gesture, he summoned a long gnarly staff adorned with a rose and handed it to her with a courtly bow. "Very well, then. Here you go - a rose for my favourite spit-fire and champion. Think of me when you use it and don't forget about Solitude, yes, or you make your uncle Sanguine cry."

A split second before he vanished in front of her eyes, he slapped her real hard on her buttocks, laughed and was gone. "Bastard" she rubbed her backside, turned ethereal to avoid the bitter cold air and trudged home.

Once inside, she snarled at her sister who sat next to the fireplace. "Next time make sure, no one comes barging into my room when I am having fun and don't you give me that smug lip of yours… or I'll split it!"

Myrabeth let her head loll back as she laughed, "By Sithis' arse. I had no idea he could be so damn hot. If I had been so lucky the last time. Oh boy, I would have tied him to my bed for the rest of my existence. I am really sorry it went all wrong again."

"Yeah thanks to you!" Ashlyn hit her sister with the rose on the head "You have been peeping all the time, why haven't you warned me earlier?"

Myrabeth sighed, put a finger to her lips signalling her to be quiet "Shsh. I am glad she finally sleeps. Man, she really thought he was hurting you… poor girl. Now tell me, what have you expected? The two of you weren't exactly quiet and the little skeever was already up the stairs, before I could crawl out of my bed."

Snatching the last bit of bread out of her sister's hand Ashlyn sat down at the table, and reached for the Argonian Bloodwine. Maybe she should follow Sanguine's example and getting drunken more often, perhaps the world wouldn't appear so bland and boring then.

"Man. Sometimes, I really hate being a mongrel. I really don't know how you manage to have fun with common mortal rabble without shredding them to bits…" she sighed, eying the bottle in her hand.

Her sister shrugged with a grin, "I am gentle with my pets."

Grabbing for a glass, Ashlyn said, "Don't give me that shit. I am still amazed that you haven't eaten anyone, yet! Honestly, I am not having any luck with any of the guys. I can't even get a little sexual debauchery out of Sanguine, how sad is that? I wouldn't be surprised if he is currently laughing his arse off about my dismay."

"Awww come on!" Myrabeth laughed but went quiet at once "Hey, why don't you use that staff he gave you? Maybe we could have some fun together?"

Ashlyn scoffed, "Letting loose Daedra in my house? No way!"

"Chicken…" her sister yawned. "I am going to bed now and you should, too."

"What about our little skeever?" she asked her sister, giving the staff a long thoughtful look. "We never told her the truth about us."

Before her sister left the kitchen, she turned back at her and winked "Have some trust dear sister. Tomorrow she will only remember a weird dream. The blessing of a little dementia."

Looking the staff over once more, Ashlyn nodded inwardly and went straight to her room without saying anything else. The itch that ailed her right now needed some serious scratching and perhaps her sister was right. And why not?

Determined, she reached with her free hand between bed-frame and mattress for Mehrunes' Razor. Her smile grew wide as she invoked the power of Sanguine's Rose and even wider as a Dremora Kynreeve snarled back at her with violent intent. "I will tear out your heart and feast on it mortal."

But before he could attack, Ashlyn had him slammed against the wall and kept him there with the blade pressed against his throat. "I am not quite mortal, churl," she hissed and watched the daedra's eyes growing wide with realization. "You recognize the blade? Good." She pressed a bit harder into his skin, "I'll give you two choices. Stop yelling and plow me real hard, or end up as fodder for my enchantments."

* * *

I am currently in the middle of exam preparations. So it could be around end of April or beginning of May, before I release the third. It's already under way.

If you liked what you read and want to know how the story continues - please leave a small comment/review or any other signal to keep posting the new Chapters here. It's not so much for my ego, because I am finishing the story, anyway - but "interest" will keep me posting here, too.


	3. 3 Broken Bond – Death of Silence

**Notes:**

This Chapter is very long - in MS Word it had about 30 + Pages.

I think most of my upcoming chapters will have around 20 - 35 Pages now - (maybe more?)

The length of the Chapter and also the lack of Beta-reader who help me squashing unwanted typos or "germanized" sentence structures, it took me some time to finish it. So have mercy should you find a typo here and there, or a weird sentence.

**Beta-readers are also welcome ^^ (I am mainly writing for the fun and regaining my old writing skills... several long years not writing made me rusty) Oh and I hope no one minds that I might mix british and american words from time to time. I am chat with people all over the world and love collecting new words and "sayings" ^^**

I am currently working and visiting an evening school at the same time - so it could happen that it takes me in worst case when I have exams 3 months at maximum to finish my chapters. But I can assure you, I will keep writing and finish this story. I hate nothing more than to start something I won't complete. So have patience :) Chapter 4 (Cicero) is in the making - I hope, but cannot promise, to have it finished around mid/end July.

**Lore:**

I try to add a pinch of Lore here and there. For those who just started reading - I stick as close as possible to the Lore. So, should you see something you think is totally against Lore... link please :D Honestly! I appreciate Links. I am also skimming through the Imperial Library and all Wikis and In-Game books to gain every scrap of information. So imho I am not really violating any Lore in my story.

**Images:**

I have been asked about the Image I am using as "Cover" for this story.

Yes I have some FanArt about Skyrim and some of my favorite Characters and my Original Characters. Unfortunately I can't post a link here - butchers it. Just go to DeviantArt and look for me under Rhian-Skyblade. I have a FanArt/Skyrim Section there :) If you search for: **Burning of King Olaf **you might find me instantly.

If you do not have a DevArt Account or if you have one but aren't 18, yet - one or two pictures won't show due the maturity filter. Nothing wild, but everyone knows that prudism rules the world and barely covered boobs might already offend some people.

* * *

**_Chapter 3 - Broken Bond – Death of Silence _**

**_Myrabeth Falkreath/Dark Brotherhood_**

Both hands propped on the small altar, Myrabeth glanced with some annoyance into the swirling light in the center of the sacrificial bowl from where Haskill's projection stared back at her – as always, unblinking and utterly stoic. "As I already explained to you, Milord Sheogorath has gone for vacation visiting an old friend, and he took all the keys with him. I am afraid your request will have to wait until he decides to come back."

"I'll talk to him myself then - where has he gone to?" she asked.

Haskill shook his head, "He hasn't informed me about his whereabouts, Milady, and before you ask, there are no means of communicating with him for the time being."

"For crying out loud! I just want a crate of alchemical supplies. We're out of healing potions and ointments," Myrabeth sighed, not believing what she heard. "Since when do his granddaughters need keys to anything in his realm while he is gone?"

"To be frank, you brought this upon yourself when the two of you decided to plunder his entire stock of eidar cheese, he had intended for a fondue party," Haskill answered, showing the first signs of uneasiness.

"You've got to be kidding me. How are we supposed to get our scratches and cuts patched up?" she argued.

Next time at New Sheoth, she would set up her own storage at Crucible and command the Mazken to keep it well stocked. Maybe the need of dealing with her grandfather's eccentric notions would become obsolete, which would result in less straining discussions. Then again, this might have been his intention all along. One never could know what the Mad God had on his mind and why he did something this or the other way. His mental state was as fickle as the light of a drunken torch bug.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Haskill shook his head "Milady, nothing could be farther from my mind. Lord Sheogorath has been very specific when he implemented his rules."

At that he turned around and presented her his back, where she could make out a sheet of paper attached to his coat. Poor Haskill. That was her grandfather as he lived and breathed. But she couldn't really be considerate here, not under those circumstances.

Myrabeth thought hard, pondering her options. "Considering his idea of being specific about things there most likely is a loophole in it somewhere, too. So help me out here. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important for us."

Haskill's shoulder slumped in defeat as he held up a large bundle of keys, "One day you will be my undoing. However, unless you grace the Shivering Isles with your presence, my hands are bound."

Now it was her who had to cut Haskill some slack for once, since he was willing to bend the rules and most likely getting himself another barrage of their grandfather's humiliating pranks. In the past, during their childhood, the chamberlain had been caught right in the middle often enough, shielding them from the worst by becoming the target himself.

Myrabeth looked back at the wavering projection of Haskill, "If we agree to pay you a visit, will you have everything ready by then?"

The chamberlain nodded with a faint almost pained smile, "Are you still in possession of the Sigil Stone or do you require a new one?"

Myrabeth looked over her shoulder, scrutinizing the shelves where her sister stored all the magical artifacts not meant for mortal eyes and use. "Looks like we still have it. Expect us in about two Nirn-weeks and have some of your best tea ready! Haven't had a proper tea ceremony in decades."

With a tiny hint of a smirk at her last remark, Haskill bade his farewell and the magical vortex collapsed almost instantly.

So much to do and so little time. Myrabeth muttered a swear word under her breath. Her sister wouldn't like this, most of all the conjuration of a portal. But it couldn't be helped. They needed the ingredients or they would sooner or later die of an infection or worse.

Ever since the Oblivion Crisis and Umbriel's appearance, opening or even merely using a gateway to Oblivion had become quite an ordeal if not outright dangerous for those who lived on Nirn. Worshipping daedric princes at their shrines was now almost impossible unless someone had a death wish or was strong enough to fend off ambushes.

Over last couple of decades, the number of self-proclaimed Daedra-hunter and witch-hunter of Stendarr had increased drastically. Every damn magical disturbance that bore the signature of Oblivion, or wasn't native to Nirn lured them out of their holes like moon sugar did with ants. Except that ants weren't that dangerous and painful to deal with.

She sighed, shook her head and walked upstairs. Nope. Her sister wouldn't like this, no matter how important it was and then there was the thing with Lucia. Who kept an eye on her, and most of all who would be willing to watch over that little smart mouthed bookworm? Questions over questions.

ooooOOoooo

The room of her sister was still dark and very quiet; which meant that Lucia was still asleep as well. The little girl was usually the first to storm Ashlyn's room and getting her foster-mother out of bed with all the havoc and ruckus a human child of thirteen years could muster.

A tiny streak of light crept through a gap between the shutters, revealing several empty wine bottles, which turned Myrabeth's tired expression into a worried one. Her sister never used to drink more than one or maybe two bottles of her beloved blood wine within a week. Now she had killed six of those in two days.

With a frown on her face, she looked down at the bed and the pile of furs hiding her sleeping sister. Carefully, she patted the highest part of the heap where she guessed Ashlyn's buttocks. Nothing happened. Not even a twitch or growl.

This went on for a few moments like this. No matter how often Myrabeth shoved at the pile of furs, her sister refused to crawl out of bed. Losing her patience, she began to snatch away one cover after another while ignoring Ashlyn's angrily grunted complaints.

Poking a finger deep into her sister's half-exposed butt-cheek, "Ha! You're alive, so stop pretending to sleep! Get up. I need your help with something."

"Go away! I don't want to hear about what you want to ask!" Ashlyn returned, digging her face deeper into the pillow.

"Shouldn't you be in a better mood after two nights of intense boozing and Dremora humping?" Myrabeth asked almost bemused, evading her sister's hand clawing after her wrist. "Nope? Well, serves you right!"

Ashlyn's hand got hold of the last piece of fur, covering her very pained looking face "By Azura's tits, I feel as if a mammoth has stepped on me and some dragon chewed on the left-overs all night. It's all your fault!"

"I haven't told you to guzzle your entire stock of blood wine. Was your Dremora pet really that bad?" Myrabeth scoffed spitefully.

"Are you jealous all of a sudden or why are you so pissy?" her sister asked.

Myrabeth gave off a joyless laugh and gestured around the room, "Jealous? Considering the mess in this room and in your head, I am not even close envying you. You can keep that rose all for yourself, so don't worry."

With sun light coming through the window, various broken pottery, stains of whatever they had spilled on the floor and tossed over books looked more like the leftover of a fight than a night of carnal passion. This would take some serious scrubbing and tidying up, something she truly didn't envy her sister for.

"Hypocritical Skooma addict! You're the one who had the idea" Ashlyn mumbled, still clutching the last fur against her dark skin. "Besides, it hadn't been that bad."

Myrabeth began to pace forth and back in front of her sister's bed, hoping to keep her non-existing patience in check. But as she saw her sister turning back to sleep, the last restraint dissipated in a puff of outrage. Her hand gripped into the soft fabric of the patch of fur and with a couple of swear-words, Myrabeth tore the last furry defense her sister clung to, with one violent hitch away and threw it on the ground.

"Get out of that bed, now, or I'll get a bucket of water to make it happen" she sneered, folding her arms beneath her breasts.

Ashlyn rubbed her face and groaned each time she moved her arms, "Man, you're so awfully not fun today! Have mercy! I am just a poor deprived Dunmer who wanted some tiny bit of relief and bliss after months of austereness."

Pulling the curtain aside, Myrabeth hoped the bright morning light hitting the corner in which her sister's bed stood would make it uncomfortable enough to stay in there any longer. But what she got to see deeply disturbed her. Her sister's body now wholly revealed and bathed in the golden light of dawn, put a colorful pattern of fresh scratch and bite marks on display which left not much room for wild guess work.

"Are you sure that was bliss and not battle-fucking?" she asked bewildered.

"Since when are you so mincing?" Ashlyn sat up, ran a finger over her bruised shoulder and flinched. "He got his fair share of bruises, too, and now scoot. I will be downstairs in a few."

Her twin, despite her controlled demeanor, always had been the rough one in bed, but she had no idea how rough until now. Then again, Ashlyn hadn't been herself recently on more than on one occasion - which Myrabeth realized now. Had she missed something?

"Mooooom!" noisy and swift footsteps aimed for the bedroom, and revealed a cheerful squeaking Lucia who stopped next to Myrabeth and gasped. "Mom, you look like shit! What…"

Growling, Ashlyn pushed herself off the bed, "Thank you very much for that compliment. You just made my day!" Muttering under her breath she grabbed a bowl and poured water into it. "Anything else, or can I wash up in all peace and quiet?"

"They say a jester has come to the town! Can I go with the others and watch him doing tricks?" Lucia's voice almost toppled over with excitement. "Pretty please?"

That had Myrabeth' attention. She sincerely hoped it wasn't that particular jester from several weeks ago, because if it was she would have to deal with one hell of depressed and shit-faced sister for the coming weeks - which brought back the regret of not having torn the pesky human apart back then.

Myrabeth watched her sister's face very closely, "A jester huh?" But she received no reaction, not even a slight twitch on her twin's lips.

"Have you done your shores?" Ashlyn asked instead in an almost too casual tone, while pouring powdered soap into the bowl.

"It's still morning" the young imperial pouted, "can I go with Shazza and Molkuir when I am done with cleaning up?"

"Don't forget to feed the chicken and clean out the bath tub. There's still mud in it from your last bear-cave crawl," Ashlyn replied, not taking her eyes from her reflection in the mirror.

Pulling her niece into her embrace, Myrabeth gave her sister some room to wash up. Her twin really looked awful, not even close to someone who had enjoyed herself the last two days. "We need to treat your scratches. Who knows…?"

Ashlyn looked her direction, "I don't think Dremora have rabies. Now shoo shoo, away with you, before you wear down the last bit of nerves I have left." She snarled and stepped in front of a mirror, with a wet cloth in her left hand. "Sithis' balls… he calls that a love-bite? I really don't want to know what his bites look like when he gets angry or hungry!"

"Good thing I already asked Haskill to get us a few crates with ointments and potions ready," Myrabeth threw in, hoping to slowly prepare her sister for the upcoming journey.

"How very prudent of you…" Ashlyn replied, rubbing the wet cloth carefully across her skin.

"Who is Haskill?" Lucia asked.

"Someone you don't need to worry about," Myrabeth smiled down at the girl.

Shaking her head as she left the room together with Lucia toward the kitchen, her mind returned to her sister's strange notions. First it had been depression which Myrabeth hadn't given much attention. Everyone had mood swings from time to time. Though, giving it more thoughts, Myrabeth couldn't fail to realize now, that her twin had been swaying constantly forth and back between the normal tidy-freak and the demented aggressive vixen that had set course for self-destruction, for quite some time now.

Maybe she should get rid of the remaining wine bottles, before her sister drank herself to death and if that wasn't enough to get some sense back into her sister's skull, she would use the staff as firewood in the kitchen. At some point Myrabeth had to start.

_'Don't you dare…I will feed your entire Skooma stash to the neighbor's pigs!' _her sister's mind rolled over her like a raging storm.

Not willing to reply, Myrabeth started off into nothingness. This wasn't exactly what she wanted right now. Maybe staying on Nirn for too long had its negative side effects, too, turning them into their opposites. She would ask Haskill about this. Maybe their grandfather had the same issues?

This made the prospect of seeing her Mazken again much more appealing and truth be told; she looked forward the fun she would have with her dark cousins. Mazken against Aureals and some nice tea with Haskill afterwards. Myrabeth smiled at that vivid mental image.

"Aunt Myra?" the girl looked up at her, tugging at her hand and Myrabeth snapped back to reality.

Myrabeth stopped "Hm? What is it?"

"Why does she allow mean demons into her room?" Lucia asked with a hushed voice.

Thanks to Sanguine, they had to fill Lucia in about their true identity and what it meant in particular for her. Myrabeth's attempt to erase Lucia's memories had failed - utterly failed and backfired straight in their face in a torrent of questions and complaints about keeping secrets.

It was still surprising how well and positively she had taken this all in, without the slightest hint of fear or uneasiness. Nonetheless, it would have been better the child never would have found out about it. Kids weren't known for keeping their mouths shut at the right moments.

"Do I really have to explain to you what your mother did up there the last nights?" Myrabeth smirked evilly.

Lucia shook her head, sending brown strands of hair flying around her face "You're icky! I know what she, they, did…"

"Figures. But don't you crack your head over it. She won't allow anyone into her room she couldn't handle. Now off with you, I am hungry." She said and pushed the girl toward to the kitchen.

But her niece stopped, turning around at her, "Can I summon Tris… err Sam again? Maybe he could look after mom. He's at least funny and seems nice enough."

Myrabeth cursed inwardly at the naive inquiry. Having that conceited peacock around was the last thing she and her sister could use, right now. Handsome or not, all he cared about was entertainment, no matter the side-effects it had on their lives.

"Do you want to be turned into a lettuce?" Nudging the girl's nose, Myrabeth turned serious.

"Can he do this?" Lucia looked more amazed than scared, very much to Myrabeth's annoyance.

Slanting her lips into a mean toothy grin, she patted the girl's head, "No. But I will if you ask for such nonsense again. You will make a nice lettuce, and you know the best of it?" she smiled sweetly, letting the said sink in. "Lettuce can't cause trouble. So don't get any funny ideas and hands off your mother's conjuration books. The basement is off limits while we aren't at home, do you understand me?"

"But…!" Lucia started.

Dismissing the caviling undertone with a hushing gesture of her hand, she stared down at the child. "We discuss this later. Now, make us some breakfast, while I look after Ash. And don't burn the bread, again or I'll turn you into a lettuce anyway."

She really had no time for this, as much as she loved the girl. Before Lucia had a chance to retort and going into the usual stubborn brat-mode, Myrabeth went upstairs looking after her sister who fought with her boots.

"I think it's time we get someone to watch after Lucia, while we are gone. Maybe Haskill?" She said, sitting down next to her sister. "I fear she is up to something… asked if she could summon Sanguine, again. I really wish you hadn't left those books lying around in the open."

"I had no idea she would even be interested in books back then. Besides, Aranea already has agreed to watch over her, she will be here tomorrow," her sister explained, behaving fairly like her old self, again.

A world weary priestess of Azura wasn't one to mess with and even Lucia wouldn't dare to mouth off in her presence. Myrabeth liked the idea. No more uninvited surprises hiding under beds and attacking their feet when getting too close. Perhaps now as a good time to tell her sister about their upcoming duty call to the Shivering Isles.

Clearing her throat, Myrabeth started "I need you to open up a gateway, sis." Myrabeth almost cringed at the currish face her sister made. _'Here we go...'_

"What? Tell me you're not serious! I had picked up some of what you were talking with Haskill, but I had no idea you were going to agree with this?"

"We are out of healing potions and all the other herbs we need for our salves and ointments. The only way to get those is paying Haskill a visit," Myrabeth tried, trying to sound as friendly as possible. "Now come on. You like visiting Bliss as much as I love seeing Crucible, again and it really has been an awfully long time since we have been there. Haskill will have some tea for us, too if we come by."

"Why can't he send the crates over? We really have no time and also not the resources for this kind of undertaking," Ashlyn said, pulled the strap of her boot tight and stood up. "Don't get me wrong. I love the Shivering Isles. I miss our dear Haskill and Bliss. But we still have to see Delphine, finding the Khajiit Astrid wants dead. Add a few dragons and Lucia's training - there's not much room left for idle tea party at New Sheoth."

Dropping backwards on her sister's bed, Myrabeth scowled at the ceiling, "You should hear yourself talking. I remember a time when you couldn't leave Nirn often enough, and now you're a total ass about it every time I ask."

"That was before I found out what our dear grandpa has in storage for us. You don't get it, do you? One day we change permanently and won't be able to return to Nirn without drawing unwanted and dangerous attention. And that's what our dear grandfather is hoping for – the sooner we assume our roles the sooner he can put a leash on us!" Ashlyn hissed.

"When have you become so paranoid? I thought I am the one seeing schemes around every corner," Myrabeth replied, going through recent events regarding her sister. Had someone switched their personalities? "Please tell me you have found a way to heal us with finger wiggling or mundane herbs? Because if you don't, Shivering Isles it will be! Dragons have sharp teeth and claws, you know. And looking at your skin, you can add vicious Dremora, too. Maybe I should charge Sanguine for the extra ointments you will need because of his not so gentle minions."

Ashlyn propped her face in her hands, "Leave San out of this. Bah! You're awfully annoying today. We have lived without our special brews long enough, and now you go all mother goose over our asses? Am I like that; too, when I am not brain addled from boozing all night?"

At that she could only snort, "You're the worst smartass and fun killer I have ever encountered, but I love you nonetheless – and I really don't want to be like you. It's not funny!" planting a kiss on her sister's palm, she tried again "So you're in or do I have to badger you until your ears bleed? You know, I am very good at that."

Ashlyn straddled her sister's hips and looked down at her with look hat spoke of defeat, "How much time do we have until I have to set up the portal? I'll need to collect a few components from the mage guild."

"Two Nirn-weeks," Myrabeth replied, sensing her sister's unease. "No worries. I'll help dealing with Ancano should he pester you again."

"Good. Because next time Ancano is giving me one of his superior Altmer speeches, I'll show him how superior a Dunmer and his cheese knife can be when it's up his romp," Ashlyn replied with a mock snarl.

Ever since Ancano found out that they were involved with the Eye of Magnus quest, he was spying on them. Myrabeth had used that a couple of times for her advantage, though she knew her sister's hatred for Altmer and did well on not provoking any bloodshed between the two of them.

The faint smell of fresh bread permeated the room, making it hard not to drool and even harder to ignore the growling stomach. Being a werewolf had its disadvantages, especially when it was about food.

Feeling famished, Myrabeth pushed her sister off and rolled out of bed, "Let's have something to eat. I think, once Aranea is here with us, things will look brighter. No more stress with Lucia releasing a wild furry in our house or dirty scamps in our storage."

Barely down stairs, they both stopped as Lucia stood in their way with a long wooden spoon in her clenched hand, "There you are. Breakfast is ready. I am hungry and want to be ready when Shazza picks me up."

From the look on Lucia's face, Myrabeth knew she had overheard their conversation. Little guttersnipe! Exchanging meaningful glances with her sister, she inwardly groaned at the upcoming discussion and unlike most children one couldn't fend her off with the typical explanations parents had for every upcoming question.

_'Must be Skyrim… the children here grow up faster than in Cyrodiil.'_ Myrabeth thought sullenly.

Lucia had been with them for almost three years now, and besides the simple truth that she was mortal, she had an uncanny perception nothing could escape. She didn't pester one with an endless stream of why and why not, instead she dug through books or spied on others for the desired information - if she wasn't in one of her hissy-fit moods.

Following their fosterling into the kitchen, she and her sister quietly exchanged thoughts how to deal with this. It became more difficult each time they had to leave for more than just one evening. Maybe they could take her to the Shivering Isles since Sheogorath wasn't at home, anyways.

_'Don't be ridiculous. As soon as he finds out, he will skin Haskill and us alive' _her sister replied, and took a bite from the rabbit haunch, Lucia had placed on her table.

_'He's just jealous, because we adore her.' _Myrabeth thought, her gaze fixed on the plate in front of her. Just one egg and a piece of bread? Lucia must be mad at her. "Hey, where is my bunny meat?"

_'Give it time. He isn't used to share our love with others. Remember what he did to Haskill, when he found out how much we loved him?'_

"Are you mind-talking again?" Lucia asked after gulping down her milk.

Startled by the question, Myrabeth quirked her lips at her niece, "What gave it away?"

Lucia tilted her head to the side and frowned, "You always look silly when doing this. So, who is Aranea?"

"Straight to the point, eh? She's a priest and servant of Azura," Ashlyn replied, while inspecting a rather clean bone of her former breakfast. "So be at your best behavior."

The child's eyes grew wide, "A real Daedra worshipper? Wow! Does that mean I will learn to summon Daedra and wear pretty robes?"

Myrabeth almost choked on her bread, "What have I told you a few moments ago? Last time you were lucky it was Sanguine and not someone else… I still wonder where you got that idea, anyway. Why couldn't it have been Azura?"

Avoiding their gaze, Lucia looked like someone who had been caught stealing cookies. Before she could answer, Ashlyn stood up and patted her fosterling's back. "No more summoning Daedra until you're old enough to handle the consequences. Are we clear?"

"If it were for you, I am never old enough for anything besides doing shores. Daedra are more interesting than grinding beetles and tundra cotton," Lucia pouted, slipping halfway down under the table until only her head was visible. "And the book said Sanguine was a daedric Prince of Debauchery. I like parties and having fun. He said he would send me someone who showed me how to get friends and being invited at parties."

Milk sprayed across the table, landing on Myrabeth's arm as Ashlyn regained composure after coughing, "Do you have the slightest idea what debauchery is about?"

"Fun, food and dancing?" Lucia replied timidly, sinking a little further under the table.

Palming her face, Ashlyn gave Myrabeth a very frustrated look, "Do I really have to explain this to her?"

Growing tired of this family discussion, Myrabeth decided to change the subject. Her plate was empty anyway, and there was still so much to do. "Tell you what," she began, and looked at Ashlyn who looked rather doubtful, "you improve your alchemy skills and Aranea will teach you everything she knows about the Et'ada."

"Et'ada?" Lucia asked, looking a bit disappointed.

"Yep. Et'ada. You will love it and to know about the history of the Et'ada is knowing about Daedra," Myrabeth promised and much to her surprise, the young imperial took the bait with a huge dosage of enthusiasm.

Ashlyn projected her physically hidden grin at Myrabeth, '_Poor girl. She doesn't know what she got herself into. Well done sister, well done.'_

_'My pleasure, but that was the last time you saw me being all prudent! If it were for me, she could perform all the pranks and insults she likes. Now let's head to the Sanctuary before Astrid believes we weren't serious about joining them_.' Myrabeth thought and leaned back in her chair with a cattish smile on her lips.

Maybe it was time to reward herself with a nice calming smoke for a perfectly well executed and schemed plan. She still had some Skooma left and it would be a pity if someone else got to it first.

ooooOOoooo

Following the path leading out of Falkreath, they looked over their shoulder before entering the underbrush of the forest. For a few seconds they listened intently for any sounds that weren't of animals or rustling foliage.

Ever since her sister's nightly anger-chase after Sanguine three days ago, many villagers had become quite snoopy about their doings. And they just had moved in, not even a whole week had passed and some of the crates her sister had brought with her from Whiterun hadn't been emptied yet.

At least the rumor had been about a naked dark skinned man and not a Daedra, otherwise they would have had an unpleasant encounter with torches and pitchforks. A real classic among those nords, which they had the pleasure dealing with a couple of times in their early years living in Skyrim.

They followed a rather obscured trampled pathway for some time, past old mossy trees and huge boulders. Besides some animals and insects, no one else was around. Not even a huntsman or one of the old women collecting berries and mushrooms.

After a while, Myrabeth could make out the glittering surface of the small pond next to the Sanctuary. She remembered that it was shallow, without fishes and it looked rather unpleasant up close. It wouldn't be surprising if it harbored endless legions of midge nymphs during summer.

These thoughts had her shuddering. She hated blood sucking insects. Perhaps diluting the water with some heavy long lasting poison would keep the little beasts from breeding near the Sanctuary.

Lost in thoughts, she went through several deadly vials she had left. Myrabeth smiled when she remembered that she still had some Black Lotus left, and no real use for it at the moment. Poking people dead with her dagger was more fun than watching them foam and twitch slowly to death. The only exception had been Grelod the Kind, because it had pleased the children at the orphanage as well.

"Damned crap!" came from behind, having Myrabeth flinching out of her scheming against the hated midges.

The trees shook and rustled at her sister's ongoing violent verbal outburst, sending birds flitting into the sky, while twigs crunched under boots and the dry sound of old leaves being shoved across the forest ground.

Rolling her eyes, she turned around at her sister who tried to rub something off her left boot. "Having fun?" Myrabeth asked.

Another colorful stream of swear words flew skyward, this time small brittle branches fell to the ground and the forest litter danced along the vibrations going through the entire area.

Now, everyone knew the dragonborn were nearby in this forest, and it was merely a matter of time when the first villagers came by looking at what happened. They always came, if not for sating their curiosity they came by in the hope to snatch trophies from fallen dragons.

Still not having received an answer, she gave her sister a very disapproving stare. "By Sithis! Tune it down, will you?"

Ashlyn pointed at her boot, which was covered in a brown sticky mass "I sincerely hope you didn't leave that here… My boots are ruined."

Myrabeth was tempted to Fus Roh Dah the rest of the pile into her sister's face. "Just because I am a werewolf doesn't mean I am doing my big business outdoors! For your information, there are animals living in the woods."

Why had everyone a problem with her being Moonborn? Guards always claimed she smelled like a wet dog, one even said there was hair growing out of her ears and now her sister accused her leaving crap near the Sanctuary. She was a werewolf and not some stray mutt which left poop all over the place.

"I know of no animal that leaves such huge dung heaps…" Ashlyn complained, now trying to get rid of the fecal with a stick. "I am going to kill whoever left that out here – after rubbing his or her face in it."

"See if you can wash it off in the water over there," Myrabeth's grumble turned into a low chuckle, and pointed toward the pond. The water would be fouled soon enough; a bit of shit wouldn't make it worse.

As they closed in, they noticed a lonely car with a horse next to the entrance of the Dark Brotherhood. Myrabeth recognized the horse and as it appeared animal recognized her, too. Ears back, it withdrew at first but after a few warm sniffs at her hand the horse relaxed a little.

"Looks like we have a visitor," she said, having a hard time to believe that this foolish looking human belonged with a bunch of assassins.

With a shrug, Myrabeth inspected wagon, while waiting on Ashlyn. They would find out soon enough who the visitor was, and if this fellow was some old acquaintance from their youth.

It took her sister some long minutes, another barrage of four letter words and large amounts of old leaves before her boot was clean enough. "Silence, my brother." Ashlyn muttered, waiting for the door to grind open.

The soothing orange glow of torches, illuminating the darkness was a welcome change from the bright sun light. Myrabeth had to smile at this rather homely welcome. She loved the atmosphere of this place, and if her sister hadn't insisted on having her around the house, Myrabeth would have moved in here.

This was her home now, and her new family, something her sister hadn't been able to accept. Maybe she merely needed a bit more time, it's been just a couple of weeks now since their arrival, and barely one week since they had moved to Falkreath.

"What's that ruckus about?" Ashlyn asked, bobbing her head to the direction from where they heard voices. "Sounds as if Arnbjorn has one of his temper tantrums, again."

Myrabeth smirked, "Maybe he had the squirts, and you stepped right into it! Remember last time when he went after Lucia?"

"You have no idea how disgusting this was. The smell won't go away for weeks…," her sister scowled. "Maybe I should sell them as Boots of Foul Stench. Someone with a sick sense of smell might be interested in it, I am certain of that."

"And you always wanted a dog," Myrabeth teased, which earned her a bop in her back.

As they reached the entrance room, no one was there. Not even Astrid, who spend most of her time sorting out contracts or looked up new potential assassins at the cluttered table.

From deeper inside they could now hear Arnbjorn's droning voice more clearly, "Keep talking, little man, and we'll see who gets "punished."

The reedy voice of Festus chimed in, "Oh, be quiet you great lumbering lapdog. The man has had a long journey. You can at least be civil. Mister Cicero, I for one am delighted you and the Night Mother have arrived. Your presence here signals a welcome return to tradition."

"Oh, what a kind and wise wizard you are. Sure to earn our Lady's favour," came the reply of an all too familiar voice, which made Myrabeth's teeth itch.

The sudden tension in her sister's mind only enhanced the annoyance because it meant she hadn't gotten over it, still. Myrabeth had to see with her own eyes if this was truly the jester they had helped getting his damn wagon repaired. Losing no time, she quickened her pace and was run over by her sister who pressed past her.

A small concerned looking group stood next to a huge box, the one supposed to be some sort of coffin. Myrabeth had to wonder if this was truly harbouring a corpse or maybe something else. Their leader had complained often enough about the lack of decent weapons and Arnbjorn's slow progress making these.

Joining the gathering, she whispered to Ashlyn, "Don't you start a drama here, now. Everyone appears to be pissed off because him, so no need to drag us in to this, too."

"It's him", her sister said quietly, pointing at his weapons-belt, "Look at the blade. It's the same ebony dagger I have. It must be Verus!"

Myrabeth still wasn't convinced that this freaky odd-ball was the same man they had spent their youth with. His features didn't really match, nor did his behaviour. The man she remembered had dark brown hair and had been of a more portly stature.

Astrid gestured everyone to be quiet and spoke with her stern no-nonsense voice, "But make no mistake. I am the leader of this Sanctuary. My word is law. Are we clear on that point?"

"Oh yes, mistress. Perfectly! You're the boss," the jester replied, with a ghost of a sneer in his voice.

Myrabeth was surprised that Arnbjorn didn't pounce the fool for his rude cadence. His wife was the law, and no one questioned her in anyway. But besides glaring down at him, the Nord didn't move a muscle.

Before anyone else could comment on their newcomer, their leader and Arnbjorn retreated. Had they known he would come here? Myrabeth gave it a brief thought and decided to ask Astrid about it before her sister made an ass of herself by annoying the wrong man.

Babette tugged at the hem of her sleeve, "I am going to milk Lis, today. Do you want some?"

Smiling about the offer, Myrabeth said. "Always. Can't have ever have enough poison."

Lis was the pet spider of the little vampire, and a rather unusual specimen, too. Not much bigger than a hatchling, the frost spider packed some seriously potent poison. Myrabeth had been so thrilled about this fact, and even more pleased about having finally someone who understood the intricacies of alchemy. Her sister was a good cook, a brilliant artificer and blacksmith – but her potions were never more than useless adulterated swills.

"Come by this evening, I will have some ready," Babette replied with a tiny smirk. "Oh and don't forget about the blood samples you have promised me. Can't really help you when I have nothing to test it on."

"Ahhh crud. I nearly forgot about that. Will be right onto it," Myrabeth sighed. She had forgotten to take some vials of their blood. Babette had been willing to do some research on mundane healing potions which actually would work for them. "But don't drink anything of it, please. The last vampire, who tried, almost died of it."

"Have you forgotten? I am not into women, Myra" Babette grinned, winked and left.

Chuckling under her breath, she poked her sister. "Come, let him settle in. I turn in our contracts, and you check on Nazir, if he got some more."

But her sister didn't react, and the mental flux she was in frightened Myrabeth more and more. What had happened to her usually cheerful sister who took everything with a pinch of humour, always found something good even in the worst of situations?

Cicero?" Ashlyn's voice was low, almost too low and Myrabeth doubted the human had even heard her.

Carefully, Myrabeth groped for her sister's shoulder and turned her away. It was a good thing Cicero was too busy with his crate, because the emotional flux Ashlyn was in right now was highly alarming.

Having barely walked a few steps, her hopes were utterly crushed as the fool called out, "Wait, oh wait. I know you! Yes, yes. From the road! Cicero never forgets a face."

Ashlyn whirled around, almost pushing Myrabeth over, "Cicero, is this really you? I am so glad I could help you and your mother. I had no idea…"

But before her sister could finish her sentence, he interrupted her with his now almost lilting voice, "I am! I am! But not just my mother. Our mother, hmm? The Night Mother! Oh yes! And you helped me! You helped poor Cicero! You talked to Loreius, got him to fix my wheel! Oh, you may have pleased me, but you have surely pleased the Night Mother. And our mother, she will never forget." Then his gaze shifted and pinned Myrabeth right where she stood. "And I remember you." He lifted a finger at her. "Don't you ever lick Cicero's face again or I'll have your fur for my new cloak! Oh yes, a nicely warm cloak for Cicero."

Feeling her upper lip lifting into a snarl, Myrabeth growled back at him, "Get that knife anywhere near my skin, and I'll turn you into components for my potions!"

Ashlyn went between her and the Imperial, but Cicero suddenly began to dance and cackle, "Ohh what wonderfully wicked response. Cicero likes you, yes I do – as long as you keep that tongue inside that smart mouth of yours."

"You didn't taste that well as that I would care for a repeat!" Myrabeth replied, hugging her sister close to her side, before she could do or say something stupid. "Now if you excuse us, we have work to do."

What a weird freaky clown he was. Myrabeth had no words, and couldn't decide if she wanted to chop him to bits and hide the remains in a hole, or if she should drop some poison in his drink.

Looking at her sister, he certainly wasn't good company right now. At least he was busy with the huge box again, or her sister would probably have refused leaving. One thing was for certain. This fellow wasn't as foolish and weak as he let on and she most certainly wouldn't turn her back on him. She would wait and observe, and strike if required.

Walking back upstairs, towards Astrid, Ashlyn didn't look too happy even if she was now a little calmer. Myrabeth at the other hand was rather happy, that nothing more happened. She had enough of coddling and guarding her sister.

"He didn't really recognize me," her sister said sadly. "He only remembered me helping him back at Whiterun."

"Don't forget it has been more than two hundred years ago since he saw you. If it is truly him, he might have forgotten us," Myrabeth replied, not sure where this would be going.

If her sister was right, she would love to know how he had managed to live that long. He didn't look like a vampire, and there was nothing magical about him. The only human race with a long life span she knew of, were Bretons, and even they aged at some point. He didn't look much older than a human male in his mid or end-thirties.

ooooOOoooo

**Three days later at the outskirts of Markarth.**

From afar they saw Markarth's corundum spires and roofs gleam and sparkle in the blinding light of the late afternoon sun. The intimidating beauty of this city, embedded in a mountain and protected by a heavy fortified wall, was unlike anything Myrabeth had ever seen before.

From Cyrodiil she mostly knew the ancient Ayleid ruins and some of the few remaining daedric ruins found in Morrowind. The architecture and machines of Dwemer always had impressed her, but this was a master piece and a unique chance to take a closer look without being attacked by golems.

Maybe they could risk a peek inside, after killing Ma'randru-jo. Now with Aranea watching over Lucia, they finally could take their time. In the past, they had to rush everything and all too often her sister had worried overly much about her fosterling which made enjoying their successful work rather difficult.

"Do you see a caravan anywhere?" she asked Ashlyn, not taking her gaze from the shining city.

Myrabeth hoped they hadn't come here for nothing. That Khajiit was extremely elusive and they had missed him now twice. Astrid wanted his tail as a trophy by the end of the week, which was a rather steep time-frame, considering the time they needed to travel.

"You sure he's here?" Ashlyn asked back, "I see not even the slightest hint of Khajiits or any tents of a caravan."

Sweeping her gaze across the rocky landscape, Myrabeth noticed a couple of ruins, suitable to harbor a small caravan, relatively close to the city. "We should take a closer look at the ruins over there. Got some catnip on you?"

"Let's look for a stable. Don't want our horses around when we found our kitty cat," Myrabeth turned her mount to the right, riding down the path toward the city. "Do you think they have moon sugar?"

"I have never met a Caravan of Khajiit who had not moon sugar with them," Ashlyn snorted, while following until they reached the city gates, where they both dismounted. "But we have to find them first."

This place was brimming with life and every day bustle. The laughter of children and excited barks of dogs bounced of the large wall, while a group nords with brawny arms was busy hauling large crates toward the ruined buildings. From the style of their clothes Myrabeth figured they were miners. From her past dealings with mining companies, she knew many of the workers used Skooma to keep up with the never ending high demands of ore.

"Wait here, I'll have a closer look at the buildings over there," she said to Ashlyn, and pointed to where the men were bringing their cargo. "Maybe the foreman can help us."

Myrabeth turned back at her sister, because she hadn't responded. "Ash?"

Ashlyn's eyes stared blank at something in front of her, the bridles loosely in her hand. Slowly Myrabeth moved closer, patting her sister on the shoulder, waving one hand in front of her face, though her sister didn't even blink nor did she flinch at the sudden contact.

"Have you heard what I said?" she tried again. Maybe she should have left her sister at home.

Drawing in a sharp breath, Ashlyn sagged a little before she recognized Myrabeth. "Yes,… sorry. I was just distracted by something." Massaging her temples, Ashlyn closed her eyes and said, "Be careful. I saw a Vigilante of Stendarr on our way here, too."

Myrabeth winked at her sister and produced her most innocent smile, "Who would mistake a cute Dunmer such as me for a vile creature, especially if she's looking for company?"

Ashlyn gently pulled at her braid - an act of sisterly love as she always used to say. "Just hurry up."

Hurry up? Myrabeth' lips twitched bemusedly. At least her sister was behaving now like her old self and besides that, one priest they could handle should he have evil intentions.

So she would bid her time and enjoy this. With a little bit of luck, they could at least bring home some Skooma or moon sugar.

With watchful eyes, she walked past miners and guards looking for any signs of a Caravan. Now and then a guard walked past her, not even granting her the slightest bit of interest. It felt nice not being known for once. Back at Whiterun, the guards had been rather weary around her, always complaining about using the shouts inside the city and weak threats about putting her into jail.

As she reached the first buildings, she noticed that besides the workers no one else was around. Not even a foreman she could ask for information. Where was everyone and were was that accursed caravan?

Annoyed, Myrabeth blew a streak of her stubborn white hair out of her face. Yesterday they had received word about Ri'saad's Caravan heading for Markath, and she couldn't really believe they already had left, again. A caravan didn't move that fast, not even if they rode fast without rest. And they usually stayed a couple of days, restocking and selling their goods.

Not interested in going back empty handed, she looked for one of the guards which she had seen near the gates. Maybe they knew if a large group of traders had been here.

Not wasting words on courtesy, Myrabeth walked next to a young Nord clad in the garb of Markarth "I am looking for a caravan, any chance you know something."

The guard stopped his patrol, "There hasn't been any caravan here in weeks. What are you looking for? Maybe our merchants can help you out?"

Touched by the naïve question, Myrabeth smiled sweetly, "We're looking for wine and cyrodiilic brandy."

"Good luck with that. Mead, ale and alto wine is the best you can find. But brandy? Weak spirits like that won't do you any good here in the cold north, anyway," the young guard laughed harshly. "You better speak with one of the merchants inside the city. They are the ones who know first when a caravan comes by."

With a nod, she thanked the guard and walked back where her sister was waiting with the horses. Even if her question about buying spirits hadn't been a serious one, it irked her to know that Sanguine had been right about Skyrim being void of higher quality drinks. The only drinkable alcohol around was her sister's Argonian blood wine and the cheap alto wine to a certain degree – if one could cope with the headache the next morning.

"Shall we go inside and see if he can find out more from the locals? There hasn't been a caravan here, yet," Myrabeth said, as she reached her sister.

Ashlyn tied the horses to one of the wooden beams next to the stable and planted a gold coin in the stable boy's palm. "You think they aren't here yet?"

With a shrug, Myrabeth headed toward the city gates "No one by horse or feet travels as fast as we do, so it could be very likely that we arrived early this time."

"I hope you're right," Ashlyn replied, following her inside the city.

Once inside, Myrabeth held her breath at the grand view expanding before her eyes. She had read about Markarth, formerly known as the ancient city of Nchuand-Zel, in history books, but she would have never believed it to be so intimidating and beautiful at the same time. The houses were framed by waterfalls, some of them built on top of each other, hewn and carved out of the very mountain surrounding the city like a protective wall.

"For the Foresworn!" someone yelled, drowned by a high pitched shriek.

Startled about the sudden and rather unpleasant interruption, Myrabeth's eyes went toward the source of chaos, only to see a woman falling to the ground, while others began cry and shout in fear as the guards took down the savagely dressed man who still had kept attacking at everyone around him.

Ashlyn was the first who moved, running up to the wounded Nord on the ground, but she was dead already. "Man, I really hate foresworn."

Myrabeth had to agree when she looked down at the dead body, pondering if she should try looting some of the valuables from it. Some of the guards approached them, and she decided instantly against it. They were here to kill someone and not robbing corpses.

"Has anyone seen what exactly happened? I had no idea this city has a problem with foresworn?" Myrabeth asked one of the guards, who regarded her rather hostile.

"Move on, we have everything under control," a guard snarled, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "This doesn't concern you stranger!"

_'We better stay out of this Myra. Let us look for someone who might know when the next caravan is to be expected.'_ Ashlyn took her hand and pulled her away.

Some of the merchants still looked shaken from the recent murder, and Myrabeth feared they wouldn't be in the mood for trading information.

Her sister made a sour face, "I remember this place…and it's not really a pleasant memory."

"Hm?" Myrabeth was surprised to hear this from her. When had she been here?

Before her sister could answer, they almost bumped into a very grumpy looking Nord "Bloody enough for you, outsider?" he scowled, but Myrabeth could tell he was bluffing.

"Eh?" she said and took a step backwards.

Looking down at her, his eyes narrowed "Are you deaf? I asked if it is bloody enough for you?"

"I have no clue what you're talking about," Myrabeth replied, while side-stepping him.

But he moved in their path before they could get away, "Answer my question!"

"Look. Either you explain to us what you mean or you let us pass," her sister hissed.

From the corner of her eyes, Myrabeth saw Ashlyn's hand moving towards her daggers. This aggressive side about her sister was still new to Myrabeth and she didn't like it all.

A the other hand, if it was a fight he was looking for he would very soon find out that he picked on the wrong women for his rather petty display of male dominance.

"Excuse me, but do you know anything about this house? Seen anyone enter or leave?" someone asked from behind, and everyone went quiet.

The Nord, whatever his name was, rolled his eyes. "Not him again… Well, have fun you two. Maybe we see each other at the Silver-Blood Inn. Maybe you answer my question, then over some ale?"

Opening and closing her mouth Myrabeth watched him walking away with, "Hey! What the fuck was that about?"

Was this some sort of strange mating ritual around here? However, before she could dwell on it any further, her sister approached the newcomer.

"Why are you asking?" Ashlyn asked lightly.

Myrabeth feared the worst. Those priests always had a potential of ticking her off and now was not really the time for ticking off.

"I'm Tyranus and with the Vigil of Stendarr. We believe this house might have been used for Daedra worship. Evil rites and so forth," the human in robes explained, pointing toward the door. "So have you seen anyone entering or leaving?"

Puzzled, Myrabeth probed her sister's mind before asking,_ 'Are you sure that's smart. I am glad he hasn't taken a closer look at us!' _

Slinking around the priest, her sister moved closer toward the door where she put one hand against the metal door. _'When we got here, I sensed a daedric presence. But this here feels different and I want to know what it is. Though, I doubt it's dangerous.'_

Being curious herself, Myrabeth decided to play along. As long as Ashlyn was calm, all was well. "We just came to this city. So, no. We don't know anything at all about this house or who might have left."

Tyranus sighed, "Damn. It's like everyone in this city has amnesia."

"Well, we might be new to town, but we still could offer our help if you want it?" Ashlyn's golden eyes glittered with anticipation.

"I was actually just about to head on inside. Be good to have someone watch my back. Follow me, and keep your eyes open. Daedra are powerful creatures and tricksters. Never know what you'll find."

Maybe it would be worth their while, and the caravan wasn't here anyway. Whenever they had encountered daedric presences, it turned out to be the consequence of a botched conjuration. She always had good use for scamp hide or any other daedric body part, which the priest most likely wouldn't mind.

Once inside, nothing looked truly out of place nor could Myrabeth really feel anything unusual. _'So much food! Look at all the cheese and wine! Do you think we stumbled over one of Sanguine's hideouts – or is this grandpa's vacation spot?' _

Ashlyn shook her head,_ 'Sanguine doesn't really have hideouts on Nirn. He prefers inns and taverns with people in it for his weekly ego stroking. And grandfather would have showed himself by now, plucking our eyes for disturbing is vacation."_

The Vigilante of Stendarr frowned at what they already had noticed, „Fresh food. No wood rot on the furniture. Someone's been here. Recently. But the people I asked say no one enters or leaves."

Myrabeth picked up an apple and took a hearty bite. "Smells and tastes like an apple."

Ashlyn picked up a slice of cheese, sniffed it before putting it back. "I wouldn't eat that if I were you. Something doesn't feel right."

With a shrug she put the half eaten fruit back on the table, certain that no one would fuss about her having taken food. She just hoped coming hadn't been a mistake. Entering houses without invitation was considered a crime, which meant a higher bounty which again meant more dead guards and so forth.

A sudden thud and clank of metal hitting against stone had them all on their toes. Another clamor followed, as if someone had wiped the content of an entire shelf to the ground.

With her weapon's drawn, Myrabeth advanced further into the dark corridor around the corner and stopped in front of a metal door. Maybe it was a silly scamp after all. They loved playing hide and seek while turning the house into a mess.

Much to her disappointment, no one was here. Not even a rodent or roach, which was strange considering the amount of food standing around in the open. If a scamp had been in here, they would be wading through excrements and mountains of garbage.

Either this was a neatly planned trap with a twist, or someone with an extreme desire for cleanliness lived in this place and had now one heck of a temper tantrum.

She could hear the pattering of feet as her sister and the priest closed in. "And?" Tyranus asked, stepping next to her.

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing," she replied with a frown and reached inside her pouch for a key-ring full with lock-picks. "I'll open the door and you keep an eye out for trouble." Myrabeth went down to her knees to take a closer look at the lock.

It was a simple mechanism, but something was off. The door was shut tight, and the lock didn't look as if someone had turned a key in it. Stashing her thief-tools, he carefully pushed against the door, but it sat tight. Not even the slightest shudder.

While figuring out if the door was locked by magical means or if someone had barred it from the other side, Myrabeth's ears picked up the alarming quiet scraping sound of metal against metal.

More out of instinct than common sense she surged out of her hunched position and almost hit her head at the handle of the door as a sharp pained scream went through the room, followed by wet gurgling croak for help.

With both blades drawn, Myrabeth witnessed how the priest dropped down onto his knees and her sister loomed over him. Her face was a frozen mask, only her eyes sparkled with a sadistic joy that had Myrabeth shudder. Every time he reached for the stuck blade at the back of his nape, her sister swatted his hands away.

Myrabeth sheathed her daggers, and send a silent prayer to Sithis. "Was that really necessary?"

"Do I really have to answer that? He's a bootlicking Aedra worshiper and I merely ended his life before he can turn on us. Got a problem with that?" Ashlyn sneered at her, kicking Tyranus to the ground where drowned in his own blood.

_'There we go again,'_ Myrabeth dreaded.

Uncertain how to respond to her aggressive demeanor, she assessed her sister for a moment. If this degeneration of her personality got any worse, it sooner or later would do the same to her, or it already did and she hadn't really become aware of it.

"What got into you? I barely recognize my sister anymore," Myrabeth croaked, not feeling well with this situation. "If I wouldn't know any better I would say you either caught rabies and it is getting to your brain, or you had one drink too much and there is nothing left of that grey mass of yours."

Without warning, Ashlyn rammed her head into Myrabeth's belly sending her backwards against the wall. "I so have enough of your complaints you insolent cow! It's not your business what I do, with whom and how!"

Still gasping for air like a stranded fish, Myrabeth caught some of her sister's tresses and yanked hard but Ashlyn retaliated with well-placed kicks and punches. They both turned into a hissing and cursing wad of aggression, only letting go long enough just to start over again more fiercely.

Having enough, Myrabeth deeply inhaled and realized far too late that her sister had the same idea. As their shouts clashed with a violent burst of energy, they both flew backwards. Myrabeth smashed with a painful crack against the wall taking down a barrel and a couple of shelves, while her sister had gone straight through the door, unhinging it entirely.

At least that damned door was open now, she thought. After giving her body a few moments to recover, Myrabeth lifted her head to gain a better view at what was behind the destroyed door. Not much, besides another store room and legs of her sister's poking through the opened passageway.

"Weak. She's weak. You're strong. Crush her!" a grating voice boomed.

From the other side of the room, she could hear her sister pained voice, "Oh fuck. It's the shit-dweller. Let's get out of here before he gets funny ideas."

Pain seared through Myrabeth's neck and collarbone down her shoulder as she pushed herself off the ground, back on her feet. Their little not all too friendly tussle had left her now sore and aching all over.

"Damn you Ash. I hope that wasn't some sort of kinky sex-game of yours," she snarled down at her sister, who scrambled towards her for support.

"Shut up and keep moving," grabbing her forearm, Ashlyn hauled herself up and limped back to the entrance with her in tow.

Myrabeth's neck hair stood straight as she floating cups and knifes heading toward them with deadly intent. If her sister hadn't raised a ward in time, they most likely would have ended up nailed to the wall.

"How classy. Seems Molag likes stupid campfire ghost stories…" Ashlyn noted sarcastically as an old wooden dresser crashed into the wall next to them and burst into myriads of tiny splinters. "One would think daedric princes would come up with something more creative."

The furniture had been rearranged, stacked on top of each other. Goblets, plates and even food turned into projectiles bouncing of the magical barrier which protected them. A huge cheese wheel hurtled toward her head, and despite ward Myrabeth followed her urge to duck. This was getting ridiculous.

Myrabeth pushed against the door, but it didn't budge, "This is a joke, right?"

Molag's voice went through them like a sickening wave, "No. Kill her. Crush her bones. Tear at her flesh. Extinguish that inner light of hers! You will kill. You will kill, or you will die!"

Calling into the room, Myrabeth shook a fist into the air, "And who of us is supposed to kill whom?"

"You! I want you to kill your sister. Her light offends me, disgusts me!" Deep cracks appeared along the walls.

Snarling, Myrabeth's voice took now a mocking undertone, "You are easily offended for someone who lives in a tower coated in poop! Forget it! I am not going to kill my sister even if i would love to, right now."

Ripples of dust and tiny pebbles rained down on them as another tremor went through the building above them. "How dare you, cur! No one talks to me like that and lives."

Still keeping the ward up, Ashlyn moved away from the door, "We won't get that door open, let us go back. There must be a shrine somewhere he's using as conduit. Follow me. Maybe we can destroy it and break his hold over this place."

Myrabeth hoped she was right. The very thought of becoming a slave to Molag Bal made her sick. If he had a gateway hidden away in here, they would stand no chance against him.

Reaching the storage room, they found a hole in the wall connected to a tunnel leading further down, which they followed until a small room with a daedric shrine came in sight. On top of it was a thorny mace, which Myrabeth recognized instantly.

_'See, it's just a shrine, not a rift. So the worst he can do is keeping us in here for a while,'_ Ashlyn's thought carried now a little hope.

Myrabeth allowed her hurting muscles to relax a little, while she inspected the shrine from distance. She wanted that mace, if only for the sake of making a point. Boethia would be proud of her, if she presented it to him.

"Ohhhh shiiiiiny!" Ashlyn cooed and went for the mace.

"Don't get too close, there's a trap," Myrabeth warned as her sister went for the weapon, pointing to the ground. "I'll see if I can disarm it."

She had seen this before at the library of her grandfather. He collected all sorts of traps, even had once suggested poor Haskill to wear one on top of his head to keep other daedric princes from snooping around in his mind.

This one was really some wicked craftsmanship. Stepped someone in front of the altar, sharp pointy staves would come up and form a cage. If the victim happened not to stand perfectly in the center, it would find itself impaled.

Myrabeth bent down and picked up a rock and threw it in front of the altar, "Watch out sis!" But nothing happened. The cage didn't come up. "This won't do!"

"Filthy mongrel! Did you think Molag Bal, the Lord of Domination, would allow you to steal from him? Kill her and the mace is yours. Her bright soul for my weapon."

Keeping her distance, Ashlyn moved behind the shrine, "You want me dead? Come and get me yourself shit-dweller…" she mocked, "Oh, I forgot. You can't. Poor poor cheated Molag."

"You will regret this! I'll flay your soul and make you wish for true death," the daedric prince roared, his voice now shaking the entire inside of this little house of horrors. If he kept that up, the entire area would collapse and bury them alive… or dead.

"Bah, I can't reach the mace!" Myrabeth cursed. Her arms weren't long enough to reach over the spot where the trap laid waiting. "Forget the mace, we have to destroy the shrine now!"

Her sister deflected another rain of dirt and much bigger chunks of stones, "Use telekinesis."

Feeling like an idiot, because she hadn't thought of that before, Myrabeth sent out her senses while her mind traced the shape of the mace. The small surge of power in both her hands began to expand and intensify, tugging with the need to latch onto something until she directed it toward her prize.

At first the mace didn't budge, and she had to use her dragon shout at it. Trying a second time yielded some success, and her lips slanted into a broad greedy smile as the weapon came loose, breaking out of its socket.

"Victory is mine!" she hollered and drew the hovering artifact back into her waiting hands.

Now they had to wrack havoc over the entire room, including the altar-like pedestal in the center. With Ashlyn back at her side; Myrabeth began wracking havoc over the shrine, creating their own cacophony which drowned out Molag's promises of retribution. Parts of the tunnel walls caved in at the Daedra's raging voice, but they kept shouting and slinging destructive spells at the altar until half of the ceiling came down and the air was permeated with dust.

"I think we did it," Myrabeth coughed. The air no longer was breathable without serious damage to their lungs. "Now let's get out of here."

Blindfolded by the darkness, she groped for her sister with her still good arm, but couldn't find any trace of her. "Ashlyn?" Panic gripped her heart as she heart a faint groan from inside the room. How had her sister gotten in there, again? Hadn't she stood next to her?

Destroying the shrine had also destroyed the torches around them. Everything was pitch-black, there wasn't even the slightest hint of light coming from moss or insects giving away where the wall started.

She went down on her knees, trying to breathe as less as possible, Myrabeth combed her fingers through and over the piles of the ruined altar until she connected with her sister's arm.

Carefully, she got hold of Ashlyn's limp hand and began to pull her out of the room. "Don't you dare dying on me!"

A sharp metallic swish tore through the darkness, and Ashlyn began to scream incoherently almost simultaneously, sending an icy chill down Myrabeth's spine. The mental reflection of searing pain tearing through her left abdomen and thigh had her almost vomiting on the ground. It was the trap. How could she have forgotten the trap? They might have destroyed the altar, but the cage had still been in place and now some of its poles stuck inside of her.

Another wave of nausea washed over Myrabeth as her mind began to succumb to her sister's agony and then there was only blackness.

ooooOOoooo

Somewhere, someone played a melancholic melody on a lute. Clinking of glass and laughter could be heard. Myrabeth's woke with a frightened yelp as she surfaced from her uneasy dreams. Having expected absolute darkness, she squinted several times as the bright golden light of candles pierced painfully into her swollen eyes.

She couldn't tell how long she had been lying here, but realizing that she was still in one piece, even if every single bone and muscle hurt gave her hope. Someone must have found them and it most certainly hadn't been Molag Bal or Hircine, or she wouldn't have been tugged all snug in a clean bed.

Letting her eyes wander, without turning her head too much, she noticed the wall carvings which were common in Markarth. So they were still here, but had found them? Her thoughts began to orbit around the whereabouts of her sister, wondering if she was alright.

She couldn't be dead, because if she were Myrabeth would have known the instant it had happened. The link which connected them was still there, faint but existent.

Wincing at the sharp blooming sting in her shoulder, Myrabeth rolled onto the side and slowly slipped one leg out of bed until her foot came in contact with a rather cold stone floor. The second leg followed and as both her feet stood on the ground she slowly lifted herself up heading toward the corner where someone had tossed all her belongings.

Her legs buckled each time she moved one step forward, and Myrabeth had to fight against the nauseating lump rising in her throat. Having no real choice, she gave in and sagged to the ground where took slow even breaths until her blurred vision returned to normal. The soothing melody in the background suddenly subsided, footfalls from outside her room taking its place.

The door flung open, having Myrabeth crawling backwards in terror as a furious looking Breton strode in. His fists clenched at the sight of her and she knew at once that Sanguine was here because of what she and her sister had done and it hadn't pleased him.

Towering over her now, his smoldering eyes transfixed her like barbed arrows, "Congratulations. You and your sister just won the undivided attention of a tremendously rip shit pissed Molag Bal."

Having no spunk left in her, she only managed a hoarse rasp before dropping back to all four, "Where is my sister… is she alright?"

Muttering curses, Sanguine lifted her into his arms, and dumped her rather ungentle back into the bed, "You have nerves asking me that! Stay in there, before I can't resist the urge to bend you over my knee and give you the trashing of your life!" Bringing his face close to hers, he growled "You want to know where your sister is? She's upstairs, being treated by one of my most trusted servants. But I wouldn't call her current state _'alright' _and you damn lucky we found you in time."

All blood drained from her face, pooling painfully in her chest "I want to see her. San, please let me see her."

"First you will answer my questions. What were you thinking going in there?" his voice almost cracked as he stepped back, grabbing for a nearby chair which he dragged close to her bed. "You should have known better than messing with that shit-dweller. And for what? An impotent artifact? Now he knows what you are, and besides wanting revenge he hungers for your souls. Was it really worth it?"

"We hadn't been aware that it was Molag Bal hiding his shrine inside of a building," Myrabeth felt hot shame creeping up her face, "When we found out it was too late – so why leaving with empty hands?"

Slumping down on the chair, his baritone became deep and brooding. "I should have never promised your father to keep an eye on the two of you." Reaching inside of his shoulder-bag he pulled out a stoneware bottle, uncorked it and took a deep long draft before continuing. "I never make promises I can't or won't keep, but you are making it really difficult for me recently. I risked my hide for you when the news of your deeds reached my realm. Are you even aware of the consequences this will have? You can only hope that Molag will tire of you at some point. But until then you will have to be on your toes. So better don't grow too attached to any mortal you encounter, because he will use this to his advantage."

Myrabeth swallowed hard, trying to answer but she couldn't without angering him more. She never had seen him like that, but knew from some worshipers that one should tread lightly, when he was cranky.

Sanguine lifted the bottle to his lips and drank without looking at her, but she knew he was aware of everything she did or thought. He looked terribly tired, dark rings had formed beneath his sunken eyes and his skin had taken onto a pallid unhealthy sheen. Whatever he had done to save them, it had left him drained.

Letting her head drop on the pillow, she finally managed "What do you expect me to say? We fight dragons; we are aught to stop Alduin devouring everything we hold dear, which should be in your interest as well. We kill for gold and we dive into caves or ruins for treasure and glory. It never bothered you. Why now?"

"You have never assaulted a daedric shrine before and my kin doesn't take such affronts lightly, in fact we severely punish those who touch what is ours. The wounded pride of a daedric prince is a dangerous thing and in all honestly and friendship, I am not certain how to pull you out of that mess you created." Sanguine said testily. "So, let me show you to your sister before you get all whiney. I don't like tears," he said and helped her out of bed and propped a robe around her shoulders. "Put that on. Nords can't handle exposed tits."

Outside the room, they entered a corridor, separating them from what looked like a tavern room. Still not being able to walk steadily, she clung to his shoulder while heading upstairs, where her sister was. She could only hope Ashlyn wasn't angry with her.

As they stopped in front of a door, Sanguine spoke without looking at her, "No matter what you'll find in there, you will not touch your sister. Understood?"

"Why?" she asked.

"You will see why," he replied darkly and pushed the door open.

Myrabeth's heartbeat picked up speed as she hobbled in. A hooded frame was kneeling in front of a bed, wearing the very same dark brown leather robe Sanguine always wore when assuming his human form.

"Remember. Don't touch her!" he reminded her, walking past Myrabeth. "Rose, give them some room."

The hooded figure stood and joined Sanguine's side where she put a hand on his forearm. "I did what I could but she still refuses to shift back." Her voice was soft and easy going.

Scared of what she might find, she approached the bed where her sister was buried under a heavy looking quilted blanket. Resisting the urge to draw the cover back, she knelt down and began to cry at what she found.

One hand came up, reaching out for her sister's face but Sanguine's warning growl from behind made her withdrawing it quickly. Ashlyn's once ash colored skin had turned into metallic gold, smooth and unnatural.

"What happened to her?" she managed to sob, not taking her eyes from her sleeping sister.

"Ashlyn had been in conflict with her two opposing natures for quite some time now," Sanguine said, stepping next to her. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed her being out of character the last months. You're undergoing the same process – only difference is you handle it much better than her."

Myrabeth's head tilted, meeting his gaze as she whispered. "You knew? This here shouldn't have happened outside of Oblivion. Sheogorath said we will have to choose eventually!"

His lips set in reluctant lines. "Why do you think I have kept following you around? Thanks to Molag your sister won't probably have that luxury of choice anymore."

Before he could say more, Myrabeth came up fueled by the anger boiling inside her chest. "You follow us around because we're nothing but a fleeting minor distraction in your drab eternal existence." she snapped coolly, ignoring the tears running down her face. "You knew and all you did was dragging her into your crooked lifestyle? You bastard!"

"How dare you to speak to him like that you insolent child!" the still faceless woman whispered sharply, but Sanguine gestured her to stay out of this. Apparently vexed by his leniency she left the room in a huff. "As you wish… "

Myrabeth's words must have stung, because his angry tone lost its edge. "I have actually better things to do, a realm to keep and enemies to defeat – something your wannabe-immortal mind is not capable of comprehending! But that doesn't matter right now. If it weren't for me, both of you wouldn't be here so show some gratitude and stop playing hurt."

"But what has this to do with us pissing off Molag Bal?" she wanted to know.

Was he now angry because they angered another daedric prince, or because of what happened to Ashlyn? Confused about this whole situation and awfully depressed, she closed her sore eyes. Myrabeth felt as if someone had dropped a huge boulder on her and she saw no way to lift it.

"Molag is a major pain in the backside, and I know what I am talking about. I cannot leave my realm on a constant base, making certain he won't get to you someday. As long as you don't get your issues under control you can't even hope to defeat his lesser avatar he uses to wander Nirn," Sanguine said quietly. But as Myrabeth looked at him quizzically, he asked, "Has Sheogorath ever told you about the aspects you have inherited and how these are connected to each other?"

"Aspects?" Myrabeth asked, her eyes still closed. "You mean Mania and Dementia? What of it?" Then it dawned upon her. The golden skin, the trademark of an Aureal. "Has… has she fully ascended?" She always believed she and her sister would ascend together, or not at all.

Sanguine rubbed his tired eyes and shook his head. "Yes and no… you two are currently in a state of flux. Something my kind had undergone after we came into existence. You could call it a process of self-discovery. Or maybe puberty? Yes, I think this describes it best even if it doesn't involve growing boobs or going into sexual frenzies."

Myrabeth sniffed. "We went through our puberty when we hit forty, and it had nothing to do with Ashlyn behaving like a rabid Hagraven on fouled Skooma."

He carefully asked, "You know our History of Origin, do you?"

"Only from books." Myrabeth whispered, not trusting her voice. This was too much to digest.

Not looking at him, she could hear soft footfalls and suddenly he was next to her. "When we came to be, we had no physical bodies nor did we know about aspects and concepts. We created and we destroyed if it didn't satisfy us. We were pretty much lost, not knowing where to start or what to do. We changed, we fought and we dissolved which had us starting over and over again until we found our place, becoming the aspects you know today as the daedric princes. And even back then, it took us centuries refining our personalities," Sanguine went quiet, most likely taking a swig from his vile brew. "You two have the advantage of a physical body and already knowing your world you live in. But it won't help you to avoid the emotional and mental change you have to see through – for Ashlyn it will be a torture because her chaotic nature had been tempered by order and now it's in total imbalance. This will affect her abilities tremendously."

"I don't buy that shit Sanguine," Myrabeth mumbled in both her hands, as she rubbed her face and then threw him a doubting look. "We're only mongrels, not even half-bloods. We shouldn't feel the same effects as father did or any of you."

Digging through his brown hair, Sanguine's voice was now laced with irritation. "Not buying my _'shit'_ won't change the facts. I helped your father through this time of change because Sheogorath had no interest in doing so. Now I am doing the same with the two of you because your grandsire apparently sees still no need playing his part as guide!"

"How terribly kind of you," she scoffed. Daedra never did anything out of kindness. "Was that the reason why you gave Ashlyn your rose staff? So she could quell her sexual hunger with it? Or weren't you aware what she uses your staff for?" Myrabeth interrupted him quietly, walking away from the bed, wiping off the tears from her cheeks. She didn't want to wake her sister from her healing sleep. "I would bet she went through half of your army of minions the last couple of days. I wouldn't call that puberty or self-discovery."

"Believe me, I know firsthand that she didn't." He grimaced while rubbing his shoulder. Before he continued speaking, Sanguine sat down next to Ashlyn, carefully not to disturb her sleep. "Do you really believe I would allow any pawn of mine touching her? Then you don't know me at all. First of all, she would have killed them and that's not good for morale among my minions, and second, I am a possessive bastard who doesn't share." He then pointed a finger at her. "And if you interrupt me again, I am going to stay true to my word and give you the promised trashing!" Picking another bottle from his bag, he extended his arm offering it to her. "Here, drink. You don't look so good."

Taking the stoneware bottle, Myrabeth thought about clubbing him over the head with it. "What's in there?" she asked. Sanguine's beverage always held unpredictable surprises.

"Shut up, drink and sit tight on your ass!" He snapped and went still as Ashlyn stirred.

Reaching for her face he touched her forehead and murmured something Myrabeth couldn't make out. They both went very quiet until her sister stopped twisting in her bed and the breathing became even again.

"Why does it affect my sister so badly and leaves me almost unaffected?" Myrabeth still didn't understand. "She is my twin, she suffers I suffer. But besides being worried and having a sudden sense of responsibility, I don't feel anything twisting my brain."

Fixing some invisible point in the room, his voice bore now a sad undertone "Your father had been sired before the Greymarch, so he inherited all aspects of Sheogorath – including the dormant aspect of Order." He went silent for a while, tracing a finger carefully along Ashlyn's eyebrows. "Your sister got the most incompatible combination - but I mentioned that already. Mania as part of Chaos and the aspect of Order oppose each other. Which explains her erratic mood swings and out of character deeds. I would bet she hadn't been able to access all of her abilities during that time, as well."

Looking at her sister again, Myrabeth began to realize what this meant. "Will she be herself ever again?"

"I can't give you an answer to that question." He shook his head and winced, "But as long as her inner light shines bright, even if it flickers at the moment, there is hope that she will find back to her former self. But she will have to do it by herself and we can only offer guidance."

One eyebrow cocked, Myrabeth perked up. "What is it with this inner light? Molag said the same, he wanted me to put an end to my sister because of it," she said, feeling very cold now. "Why should Molag care all of a sudden if she lives or not, why does it matter to you that he is now pissed at us? Malacath is mad at us, too."

Closing his eyes, Sanguine's forehead furrowed. "Malacath is a different story. He hates everyone connected to Boethia so that's hardly bad news. But Molag know having seen her soul, it's not revenge driving him. Now it's greed and of that my kind doesn't tire. She carries something inside of her, which is highly uncommon for a Daedra - even a mongrel." As he opened his eyes, he regarded Myrabeth seriously. "You will have to return home without Ashlyn. I'll take her with me for a while. There might be someone who could be able helping her with the imbalance."

Unsettled by what he said, she jumped out of her chair. "You can't take her! We need to return to the Shivering Isles in less than two weeks. Maybe our grandfather can help her!"

"Don't be foolish. If she enters the Shivering Isles, every damn Dark Seducer will be over her like flies over a pile of dung. He didn't help your father, why should he help her? She embodies what he loathes." Sanguine muttered the last words under his breath.

Cheesed by the outcome of their botched adventure had Myrabeth almost crying again. How should she get to the Shivering Isles? She knew nothing about conjuration, not to mention how to open a Gate to Oblivion. "I need her to open a passage to Sheogorath's realm. Without her it's impossible. We need to get supplies from there…"

"Don't worry. I'll get you someone who can open a gate" Sanguine said, looking at the bottle in her hand. "Still don't trust my special brews, don't you?" His lips formed a weak grin. "Now come on, drink. You will feel better and it will help you to sleep a little."

Half absentmindedly she removed the stopper and gulped valiantly before the gagging reflex set in. Whatever it was, her throat and stomach felt like on fire. "I never understood what Ash enjoys about this rat piss. I thought you had better taste..:"

"Pussy," he mocked and took the bottle from her hand. "You better go back to your room and rest. I'll send Rose with you, so we can keep in touch."

"Rose?" she asked

His eyes sparkled with mischief, "Yes, Rose. You'll like her. I am very certain of that."

"She didn't seem to like me…" Myrabeth said doubtfully.

Framing her face with both hands, he planted a kiss on her forehead. "Stop being difficult and be nice to Rose and she will be nice with you. Now off to bed with you, you insufferable brat of chaos."

"Yes aunt Sanny," she said. "Rose? That's not very original."

Chuckling, his eyes slanted. "Well considering there's a child story about Myrabeth the magpie… yours isn't either."

As she went for the door, her bones still aching, she looked back at him. "Take good care of her. She's all that keeps me from losing my mind entirely and going all murder death kill over Nirn."

Upstairs, she found Rose sitting next to her bed with a book in her hand. "There you are," she said and pulled the hood of her robe back, revealing the dark skinned face of an elderly Dunmer woman. "Let me have a look at your bruises." Patting on the bed she beckoned Myrabeth closer. "Come here. I won't bite. Unless you insult our Lord again."

Not really convinced that she liked the woman in front of her, Myrabeth refused to come closer. "So you're one of Sanguine's groupies?"

The woman started to laugh. "My dear Myra. You're so much like your mother. Sarcastic and blunt like the club of a troll. Sanguine told me so much about you and Ash, but I never would have imagined it so accurate."

"Do I know you?" Myrabeth asked slowly, one eye narrowed.

"No you don't and to answer your first question. I am not one of his groupies. I am his loyal servant and no, that doesn't include getting intimate with him if this is what you wanted to know," Rose replied and patted again on the mattress. "Sit now child. I had to relocate your shoulder. I imagine it still hurts?"

"Hard to believe. The Lord of Lechery not getting intimate with his devotees…" Myrabeth said baffled, and sat down next to the woman. "I heard other stories about him and his followers – it involved bondage, gags and loads of blood."

Making a disapproving sound, Rose's lips twitched with scorn, "That has been a very long time ago. Don't you think it's awfully one-dimensional to reduce Sanguine to one single aspect of the greater whole which he embodies?"

Myrabeth's left corner of her lips twitched, "Well. I can add boozing and barfing. Does it make him less one-dimensional? Don't get me wrong. I adore him… but…"

"I see, you haven't gotten around understanding the nature of what Sanguine actually means. Your mother didn't either, so I can't even blame you for your ignorance." Rose heaved a sigh, and patted her thigh. "Poor child. You're missing out quite a lot."

Eyes wide, Myrabeth realized who was sitting next to her. "You're our Grandmother?"

"Smart girl. Took you long enough," the woman smiled proudly. "It feels good to finally see my descendants with my own eyes. Your mother had made it a point keeping me far far away and I had to respect her wish."

"You're the one she always called a whoring Hagraven," Myrabeth gasped, slapping both her hands over her mouth. "Sorry…" she whimpered ashamed.

Guiding a streak of hair behind Myrabeth's ear, she smiled sardonically. "Your mother always had the finest insults in store for me. Would have surprised me if she hadn't used them in your presence. But that was then and this is now." Inspecting her shoulder, Rose reached inside a small pouch. "That shoulder still looks swollen. You won't be stabbing anyone any time soon, I fear."

"Great. I still have an open contract to fulfill. Oh boy. I will have to explain Ashlyn's absence… " Myrabeth groaned which turned quickly into a hiss as her grandmother applied something sticky. "Ewww what is that?"

"Marigold salve. Simple but effective," Rose replied.

Wrinkling her nose, Myrabeth turned her head away "It stinks!"

"It helps and that's all that counts," Rose countered sternly.

Not in the mood to discuss stinking ointments, Myrabeth changed the subject. "So, how did you end up in Sanguine's service if it isn't sex he seeks of you?"

"One could say he adopted me," her grandmother said with a hint of a smile. "He caught me with my hand in his belongings, which he didn't find amusing at all. So he made me cleaning up after him at his shrine and he is really a sloppy untidy one. One day, a bard came by and I nicked his lute when everyone was busy drinking and coupling."

"I thought he doesn't do that anymore," Myrabeth asked bemusedly, but shut her mouth at once. "Sorry, didn't want to blabber again."

Rose groaned, almost laughing, "He hasn't touched mortal flesh in centuries. No. Sanguine may be a perverted creep with a sick sense of humor, but I have never seen him joining an orgy himself and I live for now over four hundred years. Some say, he got his fill and most mortals are too frail for what he has in mind. Once, there had been one who tried getting under his toga. But she ended up strapped to a table where his true devotees had their fun with her while our Lord kept watching." As fast as the mirth had come to her grandmother's voice, as fast it was gone. "Why do you want to know this? Do you have a crush on him?"

Twisting her mouth Myrabeth made a sound of disgust. "Nah. He's not my type, even if some of his avatars are quite appetizing. But if I understood him correctly, my sister is doing it now with him almost every night ever since he has given her that damn rose-staff… and that has me worried. My sister never did repeats before."

"Ah that's what this was about the Sanguine Rose, why he took so much care in crafting it," Rose's mien was content, and not the slightest bit disturbed about an old fart humping her granddaughter, as Myrabeth would have expected.

"That's doesn't bother you?" she asked perplexed.

"Why should it? Many would consider this a great honor and it will do him and your sister some good to find some comfort. Times have been straining, even for a daedric prince" Rose shrugged. "So do you want to know how I became his servant or not?"

"Sorry, yes please. What happened after you stole the lute?" Myrabeth asked feeling like a child again, craving bedtime stories.

"I always had great love for music. Not having the best singing voice, I had to find other ways to express the beauty that was locked up in my soul. A couple of years before I came to know my Lord, I had learned from some wandering minstrels."

"Sounds as if you had a lot of fun?" Myrabeth quipped.

"Oh yes, it was fun. I always wanted to become a mistress of some rich ever-horny noble, having fine dresses, good food and learning the finer arts," her grandmother sighed dreamily. "But we are straying again. When I got hold of that lute, I began to play. I spilled all my heart's desire, all my dreams and my love of life into the melody. No one cared, no one even noticed me playing – no one but Sanguine. You should have seen him. He was mesmerized; looked almost like an old owl perched on the stairs of his shrine, swaying to my melody."

Myrabeth couldn't help it but to ask, "Did he look like a fat red horker back then, too?" She imagined a chubby Sanguine sitting in his toga and hooting like an owl and in the end she had to bite her tongue to prevent her from laughing.

"Beg your pardon?" Rose's eyes were wide, but the twitch around her lips gave away that she was close to crack into a guffaw, too. "Don't let him hear that. He is terribly vain about his appearance."

"Too late. Ash called him that, when he asked her to become his champion… long ago," Myrabeth sniggered.

Rose cocked an eyebrow at her, "He asked her to become his champion? He never really had a champion, just errands doing his bidding so he could lean back and enjoy the chaos coming of it."

"Well, Ash caught his interest almost the same way you did, except for the stealing part. There was a bard festival in Cheydinhal, and my sister wanted to participate," Myrabeth remembered with a swoon on her face. Good old times. "Ashlyn never was one for grabbing attention but that day she reveled in it and kept playing until her fingers hurt and her voice was nothing but a feeble croak. Some Breton who called himself Sam Guevenne approached us and offered her his tankard to cool her fingers in."

"Ahh, yes that's how we know and love him," Rose smiled. "And, did she take his offer?"

Myrabeth's grin deepened, revealing her teeth. "Well, she drained the whole content and thanked him. You should have seen his face. He looked as if he was about to cry and laugh at the same time."

Rose made a lopsided face, "Ashlyn drank his moonshine, all of it? Really?"

Myrabeth nodded. "I have no clue how she manages to keep it inside, but every time they sit together at one table, they start drinking the vile swill until one of them drops or vomits."

"So what about you?" her grandmother looked her up quizzically. "You follow anyone?"

"What about me? I am the deranged one in the family. Ashlyn always has to clean after me, because I am a sloppy git. I love killing for Sithis, stealing for Nocturnal, gutting for pleasure, brewing poison, cooking, bloodbath and playing flute. Oh and I am a werewolf. Hope you don't mind?"

"Now that was a brief summary. Had hoped for a bit more," her grandmother quirked. "Well, I don't mind werewolves as long as they don't leave hair all over the furniture." Rose gave her an assuring smile. "So you serve Hircine, then?"

"Nah. I am just having fun being a werewolf. As soon as I grow bored of it, I'll lift the curse," she admitted a little embarrassed. Myrabeth wasn't used to talk about it so freely. "The thing is, I am dragonborn, but I don't have wings, so I will never know what it feels like to fly. And racing across the plains as werewolf, feeling the wind in my face – it allows me to dream about flying:"

Rose sat up straight, suddenly very tense. "You better get some sleep now. I'll get you clean clothes and prepare everything so we can leave tomorrow."

"Are you skilled in stabbing?" Myrabeth asked, snuggling back into bed.

Rose draped the blanked around Myrabeth's shoulder, "No. But I am good with bows. Who do you want dead so badly?"

Closing her eyes, she slurred. "A Khajiit called Ma'randru-jo. Need his tail as proof for our Dark Brotherhood leader. He's supposed to be with a caravan. I'll hope I haven't missed them, or my sister and I are in deep shit."

"A caravan has arrived this morning," her grandmother said pondering. "I'll see if he is among them and bring you the tail…"

Drifting off into the soothing arms of sleep, Myrabeth smiled into her pillow despite all the terrible events she had to endure today. Her sister was still alive, even if unconscious and they had now finally met their grandmother of which their mother never spoke amiably. She had an easy going air around her, and didn't appear as the harpy her mother always claimed her to be. Myrabeth liked Rose just as Sanguine had predicted.

ooooOOoooo

**_Falkreath / Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary_**

Head propped on her folded forearms, Myrabeth lay there half slumped over the table with closed eyes. No word from Ashlyn and in a few days she would have to open a gate to the Shivering Isles with her grandmother's help. How would she explain this to Haskill and most of all to her grandfather, should he decide to pop in? He loved nothing more than making an appearance at the worst of times.

The first week back at home had been rather difficult for Myrabeth. Astrid had been highly displeased with Ashlyn's disappearance, seeing schemes and treachery everywhere. Their leader had always had one hell of a paranoid personality disorder and with Cicero's arrival it had become worse.

With the help of her new found grandmother Rose and Ashlyn's friend Aranea, she had at least not to worry about Lucia who still kept asking when her mother would return. If Ashlyn wouldn't return any time soon, they would have to stop beating around the bush.

Left to hope that Sanguine would stay true to his word, nursing her back into her former state before it was too late and Ashlyn never could walk Nirn again without the limitations all Daedra had to face when entering Mundus.

At first Myrabeth had been content with this plan, but now, without having really a way of communicating with Ashlyn, and despite what her grandmother said about the Prince of Debauchery, she wasn't certain anymore, if it had been a good idea trusting him that far.

Never trust a Daedra. Thus was the first lesson she and her sister had learned the hard way. Merely being the rotten apples of an entire family tree of half-bloods and daedric princes, they had been exposed to their double-minded and volatile ancestry long enough to know better, today and she still had allowed him to take her sister.

"Less moping more snipping! The stew won't cook itself." Nazir dumped a huge pot of washed potatoes in front of her. "Peel them and cut them into nice even dices. After that you can move over to the carrots and leeks."

Snapping out of her thoughts, she picked up the first corm and began to chip away the brown skim. "Why can't you ask Cicero? He loves peeling things…"

This week it was her giving Nazir a hand. She hated kitchen duty, unless it involved disemboweling and cleaning stags or boars. There was nothing more fun than being arm deep in a bloody mass of dead animal and graze some of the entrails. But Arnbjorn hat already taken care of that.

"No clowns in my kitchen! Period!" was all Nazir growled.

Nazir was still angry, because last time Cicero ate half of the carrots he was supposed to clean. Then again, when was there a time Nazir wasn't miffed about something?

"Myrabeth. I need to speak with you – alone," Astrid called from outside.

Myrabeth sighed and put her half peeled potato away. What did she want this time? Having her cutting off ears of Thalmor, or maybe a bundle of Argonian hides? Not certain how Nazir would react she looked him straight in the eyes, but he merely shrugged and told her to get her ass moving.

Rubbing her hands off on a filthy cloth, she made her way up to Astrid's office where she found her leaning against the wall.

"Got another contract?" Myrabeth asked.

She rather hoped it would be something else. She needed a break. The last two kills had not been very pleasant – a classic love story gone horribly wrong. That stupid contact, Muiri wanted her to kill a former lover who had used her for his own little schemes. Actually a very cleverly executed scheme, using her affection to get into her parents' house to steal goods.

Myrabeth still regretted that she had to kill Alain after she had her fun with him. He had been handsome and wicked. But a contract was a contract. At least that dumb wench was dead now, too. Muiri had made rather disgusting suggestive advances and Myrabeth answered with a dagger between her shoulders.

Astrid threw her a dark look, her voice low. "It's Cicero. Ever since he arrived, his behavior's been... Well, erratic would be an understatement. I do believe he is truly mad. But it's worse than that. He's taken to locking himself in the Night Mother's chamber, and talking. To someone. In hushed, but frantic tones. Who is he speaking with? What are they planning? I fear treachery."

"Err, I don't think anyone would want himself involved with him." Myrabeth frowned.

Astrid's tone was now sharp, close to hysterical. "Can you claim for certain your sister isn't involved? She always defends him, and she believes in the old ways."

Myrabeth went rigid at this accusation. "Now wait a second! I respect your dislike for that fool but don't you lump my sister into one pot with him! Being the head of the Brotherhood or not, you are going too far this time!"

Was Astrid now totally out of her mind? Maybe madness was infectious, although this wouldn't explain her having already up the pole when Myrabeth and Ashlyn had arrived a couple months ago. Another one of those speeches and she would forget herself and burry one of her less clean daggers in that bitch's eye socket.

Sitting on the edge of her table, Astrid gave her an exasperated look. "As the Night Mother's Keeper, he believes he's entitled to the rule of this Sanctuary and your sister encouraged this all along. If I allow this, Cicero will cite our independence as the need to revert to the Old Ways. He'll claim we're undisciplined, unruly. Heretical, even. Ironically, the Night Mother could prove to be just as much a victim. The queen in a fool's twisted game of chess."

"He will? Doesn't he already? Kill him, remove him but keep my sister out of it. Or our path will take a sharp painful turn, which I promise you won't like," Myrabeth threatened, ready to shift into her wolf form. No one, not even the Dark Brotherhood touched one of her kin. No one. "Are we clear on that or do you require another kind of convincing?"

Baring her teeth at Myrabeth, the human woman stepped away from her chair. "You threaten me? In my own Sanctuary? Maybe it's you who supports him. What has he promised you? Becoming the next leader?"

Bones began to crack and pop as Myrabeth crouched into combat stance. She would tear her to shreds if she made the wrong move. "Careful Astrid You know what I am capable of." She spoke almost softly, directing a black claw at the woman.

"They won't allow you to hurt me!" Astrid moved now backwards now blatantly frightened.

"Are you sure about that?" Myrabeth's muzzle lifted into a snarl. "Think of what I have done to your husband last time he went after my niece. Want to become a drooling wreck rolling in your own crap, too? This time I won't take it back. I promise!"

"What do you want?" Astrid gasped, she stank of fear and Myrabeth could her heart racing like that of a hunted rabbit.

Lumbering closer, she looked the human deep into her eyes emitting a fearsome growl "You are so lucky that my sister and I do not care about leadership or I would have you splayed open. I am convinced your cowardly heart will be a fine treat. But I will honor our agreement as long as you honor yours, human. So I'll ask you – what do you want of me, why have you called me up here? Think before you answer. Because, if I do not like it I cut you down and feast on your innards. Maybe I make your husband feast upon you, too."

"You need to find out what he is up to and bring me proof. If need be, hide in his coffin," Astrid spoke now very rapidly, fear oozing out of her like the sweetest perfume Myrabeth had ever smelled. It made her hungry.

"Isn't that a little disrespectful toward our Dark Mother?" Myrabeth growled, allowing her body to shrink back to its normal state. "I may not agree with Cicero's fanatism, but I honor the Nightmother."

Looking a little relieved at Myrabeth's peace offering, Astrid shook her head. "There is no other way. He locks himself up and from inside the coffin you can listen and see what he is planning."

"By Sithis. I'll hope this will end, no matter what I find out today. I am so sick of this," Myrabeth cursed. "After that I never ever again want to hear anything of that shit from you!"

Without further words, she left the still shivering human and returned to the kitchen, seeing if Cicero was hanging out somewhere near the upcoming dinner. The fool was not to be underestimated. Crazy zealots were always dangerous and hard to predict if prodded the wrong way. Touching the coffin was most likely the worst thing one could do in his case.

Not seeing him anywhere near the kitchen, she poked her head into Babette's room but only found Gabrielle slaving over the alchemy table and Festus trying to feed Lis without getting himself bitten.

So he must be in his room, Myrabeth expected. But he was nowhere to be seen. To be entirely certain that he wasn't hiding somewhere, she invoked the draconic Thu'um of Aura Whisper. The world around her darkened for a couple of heart beats and red pulsing shapes sprang to live. Slowly she counted the moving glowing blots and relaxed a little as she couldn't find Cicero among them. Babette and the fool apparently had left the Sanctuary.

Quickly she scurried into the room with the Night Mother's coffin, tugging her lockpicks out of her pouch. "I am sorry for this intrusion Dark Mother, but there's a disturbance among us which needs being taken care of."

That said, she opened the coffin and twitched her nose at the acrid odor coming from it. Snuggling up with a corpse, even if it was a dry one wasn't her idea of quality time. Reluctantly and careful not to damage the preserved body of their unholy matron, she stepped in and shut the coffin behind her.

Keeping her breathing as flat as possible she strained her ears, waiting patiently for Cicero to enter the room. Eventually she must have fallen asleep, because her eyes flew open at the nerve eating sound of his voice, as he entered the room humming and speaking under his breath.

"Are we alone? Yes... yes... alone. Sweet solitude. No one will hear us, disturb us. Everything is going according to plan," Cicero purred and Myrabeth made a face. So Astrid was right, he was planning something. "The others... I've spoken to them. And they're coming around, I know it. The wizard, Festus Krex... perhaps even the Argonian, and the un-child..."

He called Babette an un-child? If she found out what how he thought about her, she would bite him in the leg and rightfully so!

Cicero began to bustle around; Myrabeth could hear the soft clanking of stoneware being carried toward the shrine. There was a clicking of stone against stone and soon a sweet heavy scent crept to the holes of Myrabeth's hideout.

It was the kind of incense which made her all weepy. _'Oh shit, he is going to smoke me out.' _As a werewolf she couldn't stand strong scents, especially not this particular incense. The only thing she smoked or inhaled was refined moon sugar.

The clanking and grinding stopped. "What about you? Have you... have you spoken to anyone? No... No, of course not. I do the talking, the stalking, the seeing and saying! And what do you do? Nothing! Not... not that I'm angry!" Cicero drawled almost desperate with a pinch of anger. "No, never! Cicero understands. Heh. Cicero always understands! And obeys! You will talk when you're ready, won't you? Won't you... ...sweet Night Mother."

What a poor creature he was. Myrabeth almost felt pity. He was desperate, seeking affection from a dead woman known to be everything but kind.

_'Poor Cicero. Dear Cicero. Such a humble servant. But he will never hear my voice. For he is not the Listener'_ a soft voice flooded through Myrabeth's mind, drowning out everything that happened outside.

She couldn't move, nor could she breathe. The Night Mother had spoken to her, held her securely in her grip making it impossible to escape her impeding punishment for spying on her most trusted servant. Ice cold dread ran down her, fearing she would be doomed to die in here and found when Cicero would clean and oil the corpse.

"Oh, but how can I defend you? How can I exert your will? If you will not speak? To anyone!" Cicero pleaded from the outside, totally oblivious what was happening.

The dark mother's caressing voice replied, _'Oh, but I will speak. I will speak to you. For you are the one. Yes, you. You, who shares my iron tomb, who warms my ancient bones. I give you this task - journey to Volunruud. Speak with Amaund Motierre_.'

Tears formed in Myrabeth's eyes as the already weakened bond to her sister faded out and was replaced by the all-consuming presence. They had called it a blessing, a great honor. She had been chosen by Sithis' bride, but it didn't feel like a blessing. It felt like a leash, a very short leash she couldn't hope to free herself from.

_'Child, don't despair. You serve Sithis with all your being, now. Such is your destiny. Your sister will walk a different path and has no longer a place in your life. Together we will reweave the fate of the Dark Brotherhood,'_ the night mother soothed_. 'But first you will have to remove the taint from your blood, for I won't share you with another Lord.'_

Crying and still paralyzed, she had to listen to the rambling of that maddening fool. "Poor Cicero has failed you. Poor Cicero is sorry, sweet mother. I've tried, so very hard. But I just can't find the Listener."

Uncaring for her despair the dread mother spoke once more, _'Tell Cicero the time has come. Tell him the words he has been waiting for, all these years: 'Darkness rises when silence dies.'_

The iron grip of the dark presence dispersed and Myrabeth almost fell out of the coffin, dragging the dead body with her. Starting a guttural growl it very quickly changed into an agonized howl. Raging, she directed her eyes at Cicero who now stared back at her equally outraged. The inner wolf lifted its head and howled for release but Myrabeth couldn't answer its feral call.

"What? What treachery! Defiler! Debaser and defiler! You have violated the sanctity of the Night Mother's tomb! Explain yourself! Speak, worm!"

She wanted to lunge at him, tear his throat out but before she could do any of it her lips formed the words on their own accord, "Darkness rises when silence dies!"

His anger twisted features smoothened into surprise and then into unbound joy "She... she said that? She said those words... to you? _'Darkness rises when silence dies'_? But those are the words. The Binding Words. Written in the Keeping Tomes. The signal so I would know. Mother's only way of talking to sweet Cicero..."

As he started to dance and sing, the last remaining scrap of dignity shriveled away. Lips drawn back, growling Myrabeth stormed out of the room, just away from this nightmare. She never wanted anything else than belonging to the Dark Brotherhood. She never wanted to become the Listener. Too much responsibility, too binding… it was too much, more than she ever would have asked for.

Barely out of the door, she crashed into Astrid. "What is this lunacy?"

"Nothing. He's just a fool, a pawn like me. He talked to no one but himself you dumb cow," Myrabeth roared and ran, through the cave, through the secret door, until she had left the Sanctuary far behind her.

Not thinking, she shifted but even the pain couldn't take away the knowledge of being trapped, forever. She would make everyone pay for this and most of all Atsrid. If it hadn't been for her scheming and paranoia she never would have been chosen.

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Reviews, Comments, Favs and such always welcome :)


	4. Whispers in the Dark-A Dance of Silence

**Notes:**

Finishing this chapter took me longer than I had actually intended. Though, this one got now somewhat over 40 pages (Word A4 Format)

I hope there aren't too many "germanized" sentence structures or typos. My friend and I checked several times until we even found the tiniest botcher.

I also already started Chapter 5 and it got at the moment 10 pages so far ;-) though I can't honestly say when I finish this one. Hopefully mid/end September. Currently I am very busy with my studies which I am doing next to my job in the evening, and a project that goes hand in hand with my job and studies (need that for my final exam work). But I can promise you, as I did before, that this story will be finished - and if it is the last I am doing ^^

**Enjoy!** And I hope some people are going to post some reviews finally. It doesn't have to be long or much - though a little hint would be nice ;-) According my Story Stats plenty of people seem to read my story, got between 400 and 500 views and vistors. So it can't be that bad.

* * *

**_Cicero_****_ Falkreath/Dark Brotherhood_**

Astrid's blazing eyes had him pinned, putting a rather abrupt and unpleasant end to his capering. That blasphemous woman, who named herself leader of the Dark Brotherhood, really had nerves to call him a lunatic and a liar. Not even the dread father himself had ever put a dampener to such an extent on his cheerful mood. How dare that trollop questioning the will of their dark mother?

_'Think of the fifth tenet Cicero, think of the fifth tenet.' _The thought coursed like a prayer in his mind. "The dark mother has chosen and there is nothing you can do about it."

He stared back at Astrid, his hands twitching with the urge of sheathing his blade in her unworthy flesh. He wouldn't allow her to push him around for too long. If she kept at it, he would lose the last remains of his patience. It had been him who had carried singlehandedly the coffin all way from Cyrodiil to this rotten place, endured the sickening journey across the swaying sea so the dark Brotherhood would have a fair chance of surviving. He wouldn't allow Astrid getting in the way.

Soon, soon he could only hope Myrabeth would come around, accepting her new role as Listener. He would whisper in her ear as he had done before with Garnag. This was no different from the Dark Brotherhood back at Cyrodiil.

"We have no need of your ancient hogwash. Look where it ended the old Brotherhood – close to extinction! No Cicero. This is my last warning. Either you adjust and accept how things are now, or we'll put an end to it and you." Astrid admonished, staring down at him – which made him hate tall woman massively more.

Hogwash? They called the old ways hogwash? Opening his mouth, the words stuck tight in his throat. How dare her! His eyes widened first in exasperation then they narrowed in furious anger. Without losing further words, Cicero shut his mouth tight, balled his fists and left before he angered Sithis by acting out of line.

Teeth clenched he muttered under his breath, "Stupid Listener not being here, leaving poor Cicero alone with those disrespectful retards."

Without Myrabeth, the others won't follow and support his cause. She would be the one rooting out the disease which had infested and weakened the Brotherhood. But until then he had to stay his blade; honoring the fifth tenet.

As long as they kept their mockery directed at him, he couldn't do anything about it no matter how cruel they became. If he killed Astrid it most likely would mean the instant death to the remaining Dark Brotherhood and he couldn't demand a purge as long as the Listener wasn't willing to assume her role as such.

Leaving the huge cavern behind, he walked through the dark corridors until he reached his small shabby room. Not quite what he was used to, but it was better than sleeping outside and right now he needed a quiet place to cool down and sort his frothing thoughts. Where was that laughing jester when he needed him, helping him survive this tedious ordeal?

Lighting up two more candles he reached for his next new journal, a quill and a tiny ink well, but he never got a chance to write down what was on his mind. Strong and sooty hands gripped him by the collar of his attire, tearing him out of his brooding. The ink well clattered to the ground, and Cicero noted with ire that some of the black ink had spilled over his motley.

"What have I told you about annoying my wife you little shit," Arnbjorn roared and smashed Cicero brutally against the cupboard. "You have been warned often enough."

Stars danced before Cicero's eyes as he slid to the ground, joined by the sickening pain as the Nord's kicked him into the soft part of his abdomen. Inhaling sharply, he allowed the pain to sink in until it dissipated into throbbing waves but Arnbjorn didn't allow him the tiniest bit of reprieve. If his hands hadn't been bound by the Keeper's oath, he would have made short work of this painfully primitive creature.

Rendered impotent by his position, Cicero snarled up at Arnbjorn, "If you kill Cicero, our dread father will punish you for this sacrilege! Oh yes. Cicero is the Keeper and my station is sacred. Who else will take care of the Night Mother's corpse if I am not around? Think twice before you murder me you foul baboon!"

Laughing harshly, the Nord kicked at him again. "I give a rat's ass about your _'station'. _If you ever get near her again, I'll ask Nazir if he got a recipe for rotten meat."

Howling in pain, Cicero cursed and curled to an enduring ball. He remained like this for endless tormenting moments, counting each time the Nord's boot brutally connected with his body. Cicero would pay him back thrice the agony, make him bleed and kick him in the head until he was dead.

_'Teheheee… Kicking him in the head until he is dead. That's good,' _his mind teetered and the jester agreed with a shrill giggle.

Finding solace in this thought, his lips peeled back into a fierce grin and Cicero began to chuckle. First it was a low slowly starting sound, rising into shrill hysterical peals of laughter resonating through the Sanctuary, bouncing of the walls and fading out the not ending pain.

"What's going on here?" someone asked, interrupting the cacophony, but Cicero couldn't make out who it was.

The assault on his wrecked body stopped all of a sudden, and Cicero saw how Arnbjorn turned to leave. "I showed this sick piece of mammoth dung who's in charge around here. He needed another reminder! Next time that clown molests Astrid, I'll kill him."

Small hands touched Cicero by his shoulder. "Can you stand up?"

Still laughing madly, he kept his eyes fixed at the rough ground he was lying on while blanking out his surroundings. The sheer brutality and hostility he had experienced over the past weeks chilled him to the bones, and there weren't many things in this world getting to him like the treachery of his own brothers and sisters.

"Cicero, snap out of it. Let me have a look at you." Babette knelt down next to him, carefully groping his arm. "Arnbjorn tenderized you pretty good, you're bleeding all over your face." She said empathically, reaching for his hand. "Take off the tunic, please, or do you require help?"

As she tugged at the right glove, he stopped to laugh instantly and got hold of her tiny wrists. She looked so fragile, a young child – but she wasn't.

"Cicero thanks you for your compassion, but I prefer to tend to my wounds myself." Scrambling away, he got some distance between him and her helping hands.

Babette sighed, her red eyes regarding him sadly. "You really should stop pestering Astrid. As much as we revere the Night Mother, you won't find many friends here as long as you keep reminding us of what we lost and what we have become. Times have changed and the old ways are no longer of use."

That said, she stood up and left him alone in his misery.

_'Dear mother… she's right. Your children have lost their way and Cicero doesn't have what it takes to guide them back,' _he thought and it was a bitter pill to swallow, admitting his own failure.

Despite the soft light coming from the candles, the room suddenly appeared oppressive and dark. Images of the destroyed and sealed Sanctuary of Cheydinhal came back, and with those memories the dreading loneliness. Drawing his knees against his chest and burying his face in the filthy fabric of his jester's hat, he began to cry silently. The previous pain and laughter had felt almost good compared to the returning merciless silence and shame. Once more, the jester had left a bleak emptiness in his mind.

"Mother… what has poor faithful Cicero done wrong? Have I failed you? Why do you punish me thus?" he sobbed, swaying forth and back.

But there was no comfort in his madness this time, not even the slightest illusion of hope for better days. How could he save the Dark Brotherhood without the Night Mother talking to him? He needed guidance. He couldn't do this alone. All he had at his disposal was s Listener who wasn't willing to listen, brothers and sisters who mocked him for his steadfast belief in the old ways – brothers and sisters who even would prefer him as a rotting corpse buried outside the Sanctuary.

oooooOOOOooooo

The aroma of wet moldy wood hung in the chilly night air, while a gentle swirly mist rose from the damp ground toward the sky. Except for a few weakly glowing street lanterns and candles burning behind small windows, most of the small town was shrouded in darkness. Now and then a lone guard walked the streets, unaware of Cicero watching his every movement.

_'Walk little tin-man, walk all you can – because when the Jester comes down taking your pain – you never ever walk again!' _Cicero hummed.

For how many hours he had been hiding in the shadows, waiting for Myrabeth to return, Cicero couldn't tell. After the sun had settled behind the mountains he had lost track of time and if luck wasn't with him, he would have to wait another day or more.

Feeling chilled to the bone, he had grown tired and his sitting position hadn't been very good for his still aching body. The roof he had chosen as his vantage point wasn't very comfortable either, but it had been the only house he could hide in the shadows without being seen from the street.

From here he could see Myrabeth's house. Light shone through some of the windows and someone moved around inside, giving away that someone was at home. A few hours ago he had been tempted to approach Myrabeth's house, asking for her. But the given circumstances and her not so friendly attitude towards him, required a more carefully planned strategy. Who knew how the others of her family would react. No he had to catch her face to face, giving her no room to hide behind someone.

With a shudder Cicero crept deeper into his tattered cloak and rested his back against a chimney, enjoying the little hint of warmth seeping through the cloth into his maltreated skin and muscles. It would take days before he could move without pang, and most likely it would take weeks for the bruises to fade away.

He missed Cyrodiil, the comfort he had enjoyed there. Life had been good, back then – less lonely – less frustrating and the old ways still had been held in high esteem. Now, all this dismay, it was only a painful necessity he had to endure until he either perished or the Dark Brotherhood had been returned to its former glory.

Cicero felt a jawn creeping up his lungs toward his throat, forcing him to take in a deep breath which almost caused a coughing fit. He couldn't afford to fall asleep until he hadn't spoken to Myrabeth. She had been gone for too long, and only Sithis knew when she would return. It wasn't unusual that some contracts required more time than others, but the ones the Listener had picked weren't supposed to take longer than one night. How difficult could stabbing an old crone be or some lone lumberjack?

His stomach growled, reminding him of other more mundane needs. When had he eaten the last time? Yesterday? Or maybe two days ago? He couldn't remember, no matter how loud his belly would rumble. Searching through his pouch he found an old carrot. Not the freshest one, but even a floppy carrot was better than none.

_'So boring…so hungry'_ he thought, while his eyes followed the lonely guardsman.

With the carrot in one hand and the dagger in the other he sighed melancholically. Coated in crimson his ebony dagger would look so much better. Just once he wanted to put it to use, again.

Cicero's lips slanted widely as an idea struck him. Maybe he should follow the Listener on her next contract? She wouldn't like it, of that he was certain. But he couldn't care less and if there was a chance to bloody his blade again, the more he would enjoy it.

Would the Night Mother mind, if he followed the Listener? A sudden worry crossed his mind. Neglecting his duty was out of the question. Cicero muttered incoherently, giving his idea some thought. There must be a loophole he could use without breaking the rules.

The body of the night mother had been taken care off, and he doubted any of the rabble residing inside that dank cave they called a Sanctuary, would dare defiling their unholy matron. Not even Arnbjorn had that much balls hidden away in his crab lice ridden pants.

There would be at least a week before he had to return for his dark mother's body, and why shouldn't he make use of this? He had found the Listener, so the night mother wouldn't mind if he went out saving, harvesting souls for Sithis.

Not certain, Cicero sighed and sheathed his dagger with a last disappointed glance at the man. That damn guard still kept walking by, forth and back along the dark street running through Falkreath as if he was meant to test his discipline. Setting his jaw square, Cicero searched for something less tempting to look at.

Somewhere a wooden shingle ached. Pushing the carrot back into his pouch, Cicero tensed and held his breath while straining his ears. Slowly, without producing any noise, he reached for the ebony dagger, unsheathing it while soft subtle footfalls closed in. The surface of the roof wasn't very forgiving, and soon he knew from which side the intruder would come.

When the muffled movement subsided, he went from his sitting position into a crouch, ready to strike or vanish – whatever the situation would require of him. Maybe the Night Mother had sent him someone to kill, finally. And he would embrace this gift with pleasure.

"Ha! I was right about someone being up here! This is my hangout!" a young female voice chirped from behind the chimney. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

Whirling around, he moved around the chimney, grabbing hold of the lithe body before the intruder could counter his advances. "Be quiet! This place is taken, so you better leave before Cicero skins you alive and makes nice soft gloves out of your hide!" His blade pressed against her skin, but he nearly fell backwards as a sharp jagged blade flashed upwards, cutting through the front of his motley and only barely missing his jaw.

"I don't think so!" the hooded girl hissed, having now blades in both hands. "You're one of those perverted creeps, watching woman undress, am I right? Maybe I should tell my aunt about you. She will cut you to pieces and feed you to her pet scamp! Or maybe I will do so – would be nice to make use of my new toys, don't you think?"

Her attitude reminded him more of a puffed up kitten trying to impress a much stronger opponent. Cicero looked her over, pondering if he knew that girl. Her voice was familiar, but he couldn't put quite a finger on where he had heard it the last time. No matter. She had disturbed his meager meal, now he would teach her a lesson.

Lifting his chin, he had a hard time not to laugh as he saw her aggressive pose. "How cute. You're certain - you want to play with Cicero?"

Not responding, she quietly moved sideways, like said puffed up kitten, weaving a crude yet lethal pattern which made him realize instantly who was attacking him. Next time he would see Ashlyn he would pick some serious bones with her about neglecting her thoroughness in training her insolent child properly.

Allowing himself a moment to scrutinize her posture, his lips drew into a snarl at what he saw. A Dance in Silence, though the way she executed it – it was more Stumble in Chaos destined to gash her nose. Her movements were painfully unrefined and lacked the grace this technique required to be truly devastating.

Cicero's hand came up in a block, metal bit into metal, as their daggers connected. "Oh please. You really need to work on your footwork, you move like a tipsy cripple!"

"And you smell like a rag used at the outhouse!" she hissed back at him, attempting a flanking attack. "And you look like it, too…"

Not finding her behavior agreeable, he lunged forward despite his protesting muscles, driving her into a defensive stance. "Tsk tsk. No skill, no manners, no brain… Cicero has to wonder what else you are lacking – or might be lacking, soon if you don't stop this idiocy and open your eyes!"

Under pain, Cicero followed each of her evasive attempts – watching with some satisfaction that not all hope was lost. At least she knew how to stay out of harm's way. Lucia whirled, ducked and tumbled past him, yet her blade never came close enough.

His muscles refused the fluid movement he was used to when fighting, turning each step into torture. At the second attempt, he lost his patience and kicked one blade out of her hand and sending it across the roof.

A scant second they both looked down at the street, before Cicero found himself attacked, again. It was a little wonder the guard hadn't noticed them yet. Not looking up even once, the man kept walking his rounds.

If he hadn't been so beaten and aching all over, he would have slapped her across the roof for her sloppiness. "You really don't recognize who is standing in front of you?"

Lucia's arm shot forward, aiming the pointy end of her blade at his left thigh. "Does it matter? You took my spot and assaulted me! If you tried being funny, you failed terribly... liked you more dancing and laughing!"

So she knew who he was, yet she had the nerve to approach him in this more than tactless manner? How insolent and suicidal had the youth gotten these days – especially the females? She should have invited him inside, instead of marking her territory.

"Cry Cicero a river! If you hadn't been so blustering, we wouldn't be wasting our time tottering around," he admonished angrily and limped to the right. He had a real hard time not to shout at her.

Pushing the hood back with her free hand, she grinned widely back at him. "Why? I hadn't that much fun in ages and you at least don't hold back!"

Wagging a finger at her, Cicero scolded softly, "Cocky, aren't we? But you're severely mistaken. Cicero is holding back, oh yes, because if I weren't - you would be as dead as mutton…"

"Lucia! Where are you?" someone called, but no one answered. "Stop playing your silly '_hide and seek' _games!"

"By Molag's Balls…" Lucia scowled.

Cicero went motionless as he recognized the voice and nearly ended up with a blade in his guts. "Guess where…" he hollered, and kicked Lucia into the chest.

Now, even the guard was looking their direction. Had taken him long enough, considering the noise their little game had produced. Maybe the poor wretch had taken an arrow to his ear?

"You better get down, before she grounds you…" he whispered sweetly only for Lucia's ears to hear. "She's a mean one, Cicero knows this…"

Still keeping his distance, he watched her scrambling back to her feet. She didn't look too happy how it had ended for her, and if she was anything like Ashlyn, she could still attack for the sake of mending her ego.

Shaking a fist at him, Lucia made a sour face, "Pox on you! Should have known my aunt sent someone after me…"

"Hey! You shouldn't be up there…" the guard shouted up at them, shaking his head. "Damn children – how did you get up there, anyway?"

"Well, how did I do that? I climbed… what else…" Lucia spat back, collecting her daggers. Turning her head at Cicero she groused, "Tell-tale! You're no fun at all for a Jester."

"You're welcome," Cicero sneered back, and bowed deeply. "Maybe, if you ask nicely next time we could repeat this without me humiliating you."

"Cicero?" Myrabeth shouted, tilting her head their direction. "Lucia, get down here before I whip that ass of yours to Oblivion! How often do I have to tell you to stay off that roof!"

"Listener!" Cicero greeted, jumped off the roof without thinking and landed in an elegant crouch in front of Myrabeth which he credited instantly with a wince as pain shot through his bones. "Cicero has been waiting for you all evening, but now you are here and we can talk."

"How did you do that? You should have broken all your bones!" the guard gasped, but Cicero ignored him.

"What have you done with Lucia up there?" Myrabeth asked angrily, walking toward him. "She is limping and I know she wasn't before she ran off."

"They were playing something up there and tossing half of the roof over," the guard mentioned, now taking a very close look at Cicero. "Still don't get it… your legs should be broken. That's a three story house…"

Myrabeth sighed, "Drop it and go back to your patrol Hagen. He is just some jester, trained in acrobatics."

The guard became slack jawed for a brief moment, but nodded. "Still! The roof tops of houses are no playground!" Regarding Cicero with a stern glare, he said. "No more acrobatics, do you understand me?"

Myrabeth returned her attention back at Cicero. "So, explain yourself. What have you been doing with my niece up that roof?"

Before he could answer, the young imperial stormed between them, "We practiced blade combat. You never allow me to use my weapons on a living person and that wooden fencing dummy is dead boring!"

Pulling the young Imperial past her, she said. "No complaints! I allowed you to join me hunting down criminals, not killing them! That's my privilege whelp! Go inside. Aranea has a nice hot bath ready. You smell like an old rotten bone – don't want that in the kitchen or anywhere else in the house."

"But auntie… we just got home!" Lucia whined.

Pointing toward their house, Myrabeth snapped. "Exactly! I am tired and filthy, and want to settle in before I drop here on the street." As Lucia didn't move, Myrabeth shook her fist vehemently in front of her niece's face. "Now go! No discussion or I have you collecting Scamp droppings from the attic!"

Defeated, Lucia spilled a series of foul insults and curses before she vanished inside the house.

Myrabeth eyed Cicero wearily. "Damn. I am too tired for this shit. So… practicing blade combat, huh? Why do I have such a hard time believing you?"

"But Listener! It's true. She asked dear Cicero for help and I obliged." Still beaming at Myrabeth, he began to clap his hands. "Well, all right – seems combat lessons are over and now Cicero would love to have a chat with you."

"What is there to talk about?" Myrabeth said coolly. "I am doing the dread mother's bidding. Why do you hound me this time?"

Not wanting to talk about internal issues regarding the Dark Brotherhood in the open, his face took on a pitiable expression as he spoke. "Could we go somewhere warm and less public?"

Lifting one eyebrow, she stared into his eyes. "First you tell me what this is about? Don't think me stupid. I know you are up to no good. You never are when you come after me and I don't want to shed blood in my house, if you are…."

"Astrid," was all he wheezed through his teeth, folding his arms in front of his chest. He needed to warm his bones, or he would feel much worse tomorrow.

"Not again…" she groaned bitterly. "Come inside and follow me downstairs. No need to involve everyone in this drama of yours!" Then her eyes moved, pinning someone lurking inside the doorframe. "And you go take that bath before the water gets cold!"

"I wish mom would be back. You're such a bitch when she isn't around!" Lucia pointed out.

Myrabeth said briskly, "No discussion! Not here, not now or that bitch will bite you where it hurts!"

"Fine!" Lucia sighed and made room for them to enter.

"If I had known human teenager were that complicated, I would have told Ashlyn to go for a dog instead," Myrabeth complained.

Biting his lower lip, Cicero inwardly shook his head. They hadn't been any better when they had been young – maybe not as vulgar, but insolent all the same. Though, that's something he would keep to himself. He wanted Myrabeth's help and not upset her even more.

"Listener…" he began, but she hushed him.

Myrabeth pushed him inside the entrance hall, "Not here!" Glancing upstairs, she called "Grandma, make sure Lucia takes her bath. I don't want her stinking up the kitchen while I am busy with my guest here!"

An elderly woman came downstairs giving him a warm welcoming smile. "Well well, who have we here? A jester? I had no idea you liked humorous men?"

Before Cicero could answer, Myrabeth cut him off. "You're horrible… He's a colleague and not here for what you think."

Laughing, the older Dunmer woman patted Myrabeth on her back. "Have fun. But don't forget to take a bath yourself. The stench coming from you isn't any better than what your chickens leave behind…"

"Well, the sewers aren't supposed to smell nice. The rats might take offense if they smelled like roses… and I know of at least one more who would be offended if they did. But don't you worry, it won't take long, am I right Cicero?" Myrabeth asked.

He pressed his lips together, nodded and followed Myrabeth downstairs, where they entered a room filled with bookshelves and magical devices of unknown origin. A heavy scent hung in the air, reminding Cicero of the incense he used while cleansing the mummified body of the Night Mother.

In the darkest part of the room he noticed with some discomfort a daedric looking shrine and a construct which resembled a small version of an Oblivion Gate. The images of demons and other foul beasts spilling from those infernal maws were still present.

Pointing at the gate, he asked. "Please, tell Cicero that construct is merely for decoration…"

Myrabeth turned around, giving him one of her annoyed looks. "Don't ask questions if you might not like the answers." Pushing a chair into his direction, she took another one and sat down. "Ever since you showed up everything went down the drain. I blame you for this mess!"

Why was she so angry with him? He hadn't asked her to hide in the coffin. "Of what do you accuse poor Cicero?" He shoved the chair closer toward her, so she could not avoid his gaze.

Myrabeth reached behind her into a slim shelf, getting hold of a small piece of paper. "If you hadn't rambled about the old ways and constantly stepped on Astrid's toes, all this wouldn't have happened. I never wanted to become Listener. I had other plans not involving the Night Mother." She said, while emptying a small vial on the paper and began rolling it.

There was no greater honor than being chosen. Why couldn't she rejoice? Cicero held his breath for a few moments, preventing his eager mouth from asking aloud without rephrasing his thoughts first. Being hungry wasn't good for thinking straight.

"Cicero hasn't chosen you to become the Listener. I would have given everything to become the Listener myself, but the Night Mother chose you and you alone," he replied sternly. "You should consider this a great honor and not a burden."

"Honor? She destroyed the soul bond between me and my sister. She denied me the pleasure of the hunt by commanding me to remove the beast blood from my veins!" Myrabeth stated, setting the rolled paper alight. Closing her eyes, she put it to her lips, inhaled before speaking. "Not being a werewolf anymore I can live with, even if it irks me. But coping with the oppressive silence in my head is an extreme burden, no matter what you claim."

"Silence? You can hear our mother, how can there be silence?" he asked, not understanding her dismay. "Doesn't she speak to you?"

Myrabeth's turned from intense glare to a sad squint. "You really believe she is talking to me all the time? Then you are mistaken… you poor poor silly fool. She only speaks when she wants someone dead. My sister and I could talk as if we were in the same room. What she felt, I felt and the other way around. I am incomplete now, only half of me. Something you probably won't understand…so don't you dare berating me!"

Cicero stared down at his shaking hands. "You think being Keeper is being any better? No one asked Cicero if he wanted the position as Keeper. I have been chosen like you - but I at least embraced my duty and didn't run like a coward!" Deeply disappointed by her lack of loyalty, he pointed a finger at her. "You are lucky, because you still receive contracts. And what does poor Cicero got left? Cleaning and tending the night mother's corpse – an honorable task for sure – but it no more contracts for pitiful Cicero… never ever. But does Cicero complain? Oh no! Cicero is a faithful servant of our unholy matron."

Her angry expression eased up a little, but her voice was filled with a mixture of sadness and bitterness. "I am glad for you if you can live like that, but it won't change how I feel about this. My soul is my own, and I want to be complete again, which I can only be with my sister!"

"Where is your sister, anyways?" Cicero asked. Ashlyn had been gone for a long time, and no one knew what happened and where she was. "Will she return?"

"Doesn't matter… she is where she is and it's good she doesn't see you like this right now!" Myrabeth replied sourly.

Feeling insulted, Cicero's head perked up. "Why is that?"

Blowing smoke through her nose, she snorted. "I have read those books you have hidden in your chamber. She has been right all along, and I still feel bad about doubting her sanity in this matter." Taking a long deep draft, she closed her eyes and exhaled audibly. "She loved you – have you been aware of that?"

She had searched his room? What should he think of that? Next time he would make certain to hide his records.

Holding back his anger about her impudence, Cicero huffed, "She had been a child… how could she have loved me."

Laughing quietly, Myrabeth blew slightly at the gleaming tip. "Even a child can love. But nope, not that kind of love you might think of. We both adored you, we both saw in you our older brother. For Ashlyn you have been a shining paragon – treated her well while others didn't. Then you ran off without losing even one word. She believed you dead, murdered or worse."

Cornered, he pulled down the jester's hat and crumpled in his hands. "Yes, Cicero is the one you knew back at Cyrodiil - but he is no more, because the Fool of Hearts took his place." He leaned back in his chair, releasing a long exhausted sigh. "Mind sharing some of that?" he pointed at the tiny left over in her hand.

Leaning back in her chair, she gave him a long pondering glance. "I am not certain if that's a good idea. It's a special mix not meant for mo… humans…"

He held her gaze. "Cicero needs something to numb down the pain."

"Don't blame me for any side effects," she said with a shrug she pulled out another tiny vial and piece of paper which she threw in his direction. "What pain? In your head? Don't think that's going to help your idiocy…"

Cicero kept his narrowed eyes now on the small paper, while rolling the Skooma into it. "That drooling carpet abused Cicero as practice dummy. Now every muscle and bone hurts."

Shaking her head, she exhaled through her nose. "Let me guess. You stole Astrid's sweetroll?"

His stomach growled, but instead of asking for something to eat, Cicero lighted his smoke. Inhaling first and let the substance take its first effect. Famished as he was, the drug should work very fast.

"She mocks the old ways… and Cicero can't remain silent when she insults everything holy to the Dark Brotherhood, our traditions which gave us purpose. There is no room for pretender, and she is not the Listener yet she claims leadership." Cicero replied quietly.

Myrabeth's eyes turned dark and he could have sworn they were glowing with a bluish hue for a brief moment.

"You want her dead like you wanted Rasha dead and I am supposed to do it? Don't deny it – you wrote it all down in your journal… and I am not certain what to think of your deed," she accused him.

Unsure what she was playing at, he eyed her carefully. "Rasha lied about being the Listener. A sacrilege punishable by death! He left Cicero not much of a choice. I tried to talk sense into him, but in the end he had to die."

Anguish twisted her dunmeri features. "Why does it feel more like vengeance to me? He made you Keeper, didn't he? And you hated him for it! It may not have shown in your journal, but the way you described your loss of freedom made it more than obvious how you truly felt about his choice!"

The accusation hit him like a steel clad fist straight in the guts. Regret about his untidiness reminded him once more to hide personal belongings in much more secure places. Maybe placing a trap wouldn't be such a bad idea, either. Not deadly, but most certainly a painful one.

His hands began to shake visibly now, and all the kneading of his already tattered hat didn't help to cover the signs of exhaustion. "Blame me all you want. But he is dead and nothing will change it. Why do you care about that arrogant cat anyway?"

"If Ashlyn wouldn't care about you I would have had your hide for what you have done." Myrabeth countered. "Rasha had been part of our family. A friend, someone we could trust. You had him killed."

"He lied about being the Listener!" Cicero insisted, unnerved by her stubbornness.

Inhaling some more of the white smoke, she glowered at him for a moment. "The times back then had been horrid, and from what I gathered the Dark Brotherhood had already been decimated drastically." Still glowering, her tone turned a notch darker. "It never occurred to you that his sole intention could have been desperate yet honorable? That he actually tried to save what was left by giving hope to those who believed everything lost? Would it really have mattered if he was the Listener or not, as long as it kept the Dark Brotherhood alive?"

The way she had pointed it out hit another nerve, making it impossible to deny the truth her words carried. Not even the drug helped him to forget that fateful night and the more he recalled of the events, the worse his stomach clenched. When the Khajiit had declared himself Listener, all Cicero perceived was treachery and not some noble motivation.

"Listener… What was done remains done and can't be undone. Like you said; times have been horrid and there was not much room for optimism and reasonable thinking," he said disheartened by her glare.

Myrabeth pressed her palm against her forehead, eyes closed. "You know what's really nagging at me?"

"That you can't kill poor Cicero?" he asked slowly. Looking at his current life, this might be the better fate. His death would end his misery.

"I can't hate you… as much as I want to, I can't," she replied without looking at him. "You have been like a brother to me. I may not have worshiped you as my sister did, but I cared about you, too. Now I am sitting here with you, but you have changed into a mentally deranged fool who derives purpose from cleansing a corpse - which makes me wonder who got the worse fate here. So is it pity I feel, or remnants of old feelings?"

He had no answer to this. Fate had been merely an excuse for him, used by those who didn't feel responsible and blamed a higher power for all the bad things happening to them.

Lost in thoughts he hadn't entirely noticed Myrabeth moving closer towards him. "Since you can't put my mind at ease, the least you could do is being honest why you left us without even one clue? There are a few things which don't add up… your age for example…."

Coming clean hadn't been his idea of convincing Myrabeth to aid him in his task. Though, they had come that far and he couldn't turn away now. "There was a series of incidents, involving Cicero … which forcing me to leave. One of those incidents also included a woman I cared about. Do you remember Nelly?"

Her face took on the expression of mildly shocked disbelief. "That pompous Dibella worshiping whore?"

Nodding, he avoided her stare. "I wouldn't have called her a whore, but yes, that one. Cicero's sharp shiny knife ended up in her belly and there were many who wanted me dead for this deed."

Cicero told her about how he met Nelly, and what had happened to push him over the edge. Patiently, Myrabeth leaned back in her chair, only nodded now and then – yet not interrupting him once. He couldn't tell her everything what he had been up to back then, still Cicero hoped it would be enough to appease her.

As Cicero finished, she smirked sardonically at him. "So that's where your silly little ditty about Nelly comes from." Then she snorted. "You killed her… why the fuss? Many people died in that city, and only Mephala knows how many died by our hands – because I lost track after a while. That doesn't explain why you left without letting us know you're still alive!"

His body began to slacken, tempting him to answer all her questions. But Cicero only sighed. No. He wouldn't talk about it. He had sworn an oath, and struck a deal he wouldn't betray. Not even for Myrabeth - and her being the Listener didn't change anything.

"As Shishero already eshplained, shere were valid reashons – shtill are!" he slurred. His tongue felt so heavy and so did his eyelids.

"And you really want me to accept this," Myrabeth whispered, though he could tell from her now very aggressive posture that she was close slapping him. "I don't get it. Ashlyn mourned you, damn it! Now you treat her like some stranger you just met, and give me this mysterious shit about your past. Why are you still alive? You're human, your kind doesn't live that long! Really! Give me something, before I have to slit your throat for being an ass."

Smiling sadly, he shook his head. "No Lishtener. You got it all wrong. The Shishero she loved is dead and no matter how hard you try, he won't come back! Cut my throat, if it makes you feel any better – but Shishero won't tell you more. You've got a bunsh of shecrets yourshelf..."

"You're a fool and a major asshole!" she barked, throwing him a cantankerous glare.

The room began to sway, some of the walls looked as if they moved towards him. "Shat Shishero ish indeed – eshept for being an asshole," he nodded solemnly and giggled at the funny look on her face. She was too cute when she was angry. "Will you help Shishero wish Ashtrid, and reform she dark Brosherhood?"

"Sithis… shouldn't have shared my stash with you!" she said, kneeling next to him. "Do you feel sick? Can't have you vomiting down here or grandma will kill me."

"Anshwer Shishero's queshion, will you?" he demanded, and nearly fell from the chair as he leaned forward closer to her face. "And no, Shishero doeshn't feel like vomiting. I feel like flying – nishe shtuff!"

"You're impossible! But here we go… I have sworn loyalty to the Dark Brotherhood and even if they don't stick to the five tenets, I do!" she replied testily. "There aren't many left of us and you want me to do your dirty work? Why don't you kill her yourself?"

Cicero grimaced at her, ignoring the numb feeling creeping along his face. "Haven't I told you shat already? Ash a Keeper, Shishero's servishe is to the Night Mosher only. I am only permitted to draw my blade when shomeone shreatens her remains or shlanders her name in my presence…" Then his face lit up as he murmured hopefully into her direction "or if you order me to..."

"That sucks a big one…" Myrabeth noted, her smoldering eyes now thoughtful. "As Listener I am sort of a leader among the Brotherhood, yet I doubt the others will follow us just because I say so." Suddenly, she went silent and smiled back at him. "Wait a second. Don't I outrank you?" she asked, now looking hopeful. "Can I command you to go away?"

Cicero let his head loll back as he chuckled. If he hadn't been so incredibly woozy now, he would have dropped off the chair laughing hysterically. "Trying to be shmart Lishtener? No you cannot! You can command Shishero to shtab someone, carry your burden or…" he looked back at her, eyes as wide as his leering grin, "doing the osher kind of shtabbing…"

The look on her face was priceless, as she scoffed, "Dream on you fool! So when I command you to jump off the next cliff, you won't obey?"

Laughing out loud, he slipped a little to the side, off his chair, into her shoulder. "Oh sweet Lishtener. You're sush an easy target for mockery. But no, Shishero won't jump from any cliff. Why would I want to obey this shtupid command?"

"Because I am the Listener?" she returned.

"Silly Lishtener!" Cicero babbled.

"Why do you need my help, anyway? Why don't you reform somewhere else, and forget about them?" Myrabeth asked, while she pushed him back onto his chair. "Bah. Next time you don't get any of my Skooma…"

"Shishero had shought about shis, before talking to you, more than onshe. But wishout you, as the Lishtener, there is no real shance to regain our foothold," Cicero replied and added "it had taken our unholy mosher many yearsh to find a new Lishtener, you, and Shishero won't push his luck too far. Now pleashe, shtop pestering poor drugged Shishero wish sush difficult queshions…"

Letting out a long groan, Myrabeth stood up from her chair. "You know. If I agree and kill Astrid, someone will have to take her place as Leader. And how can you be certain, that if she has been removed, the others will follow? Arnbjorn will come after you and me. Not that I fear any of them, but I doubt murder will be the right course, here."

"An accident…?" he suggested, not capable of forming more comprehensible words.

Her hand grabbed his chin. "Damn, told you that stuff wasn't meant for you kind… Grandma, need some help down here!"

Not being in control over his body anymore Cicero could only answer with a low hum of sleepy happiness before his eyes rolled back and everything went wonderfully dark.

oooooOOOOooooo

Dreams, not nightmares! Cicero hadn't dreamed well for many years. He couldn't even remember what a normal dream felt like. Now, there was warmth and darkness cradling his scarred mind in its welcoming embrace.

Instead of the dreaded silence or cacophonic hysteria there were soothing whispers in the dark, joined in a sinister song he could have listened to forever. An ebbing and raising melody not meant for the ears of mortals, sweeping him away from all the pain and hardship – away from his sorrow. No shrill laughter, no grotesque grimaces of the dead haunting his nightly respite and for the first time in years he felt at ease.

Cicero sighed in content, drifting forth and back while listening to the voices. What they were saying he couldn't make out, no matter how hard he tried. Some were caressing, others had an encouraging undertone pressing him onward. He could only hope the void would be a place like this, because if it was, he gladly would give his life in service to the Dark Brotherhood without second thought.

Suddenly, the hushed voices turned into sharp commanding hisses followed by a glass shattering shriek which pierced through the calming dark. Something heavy landed on his chest, tugging at his blanket and him back into consciousness where he found himself face to face with large color smeared eyes, row of tiny sharp teeth framed by dark red lips.

It was the most hideous creature he had ever seen in his entire life, and Cicero wasn't so certain anymore if he really was awake. Confused and hampered by a terrible hangover, Cicero began to scream in anger and terror at the ugly thing which sat on him.

In return the creature's ridiculously large eyes went wide with panic, answering his screams with his own screeches as it jumped off the bed and hid inside a laundry basket.

From above he heard Myrabeth shouting warnings, and somewhere a girl complained about wanting to fight, too. A door crashed against the inside of the house, and Cicero could hear every single splinter of wood hitting the ground. Trampling, curses and threats went hand in hand with the sounds of a fight.

"Kill that whore and take the rest for our Master!" a rough male voice ordered.

Myrabeth shouted from above, "Rook! Get Cicero's ass up here!"

Protesting noises came from the basket, giving away who had been meant with Rook. A long rat-like tail, decorated with ribbons and a tawdrily tie, whipped up and followed the rest of the body inside the rattling basket.

Not wasting more time on pondering what kind of beast he had been awakened by, Cicero jumped out of bed. The rumpus upstairs didn't allow him to wait for his mind to catch up with his body. Ignoring the cold ground beneath his feet, he ran upstairs where he found himself in the middle of whirling staves, stabbing blades.

From outside he was a group of leather clad intruders pressing inside the house and from the look Myrabeth had a hard time keeping them outside.

"Catch," Rose shouted from the left, throwing a shimmering blade his direction.

He snatched it out of the air and joined Myrabeth's side. "Forgot to pay the rent, Listener?"

"Shut up and make certain they can't get inside," she panted, kicking one of the assailants straight in the face. "Sithis' arse… there must be a nest of those shits. Where are those nosey guards if you need them!"

"They're on their way," someone called from farther outside.

There were a few villagers around, trying to help fending off the unwelcome guests with everything they got for a weapon. Whoever they were facing, they were well trained fighter and not the usual ragtag band of bandits trying to sack some small town.

"Fire in the hole!" a woman shouted from above and Myrabeth moved back inside the house, yanking Cicero with her.

A large blazing fireball swished downward on their attackers, coating three of of them in liquid golden heat. A crescendo of pained screams tore from their mouths, as clothes and skin melted away. Luckily, it hadn't had a large blast radius, or it would have hit him and Myrabeth – and half of the house, too.

"Can't you just shout them to pulp?" Lucia called from the kitchen, still busy barring the windows. "Damn, you burned the porch Aranea… a bit more careful, please. That were my poppies you fried!"

"Better the poppies then the rest of the town!" came from upstairs, and another fireball burst into the fighting masses. "Rose, how about some help down there?"

"Not enough room to summon anything big enough to fight for us," Rose shouted from behind. "Lucia, stay in the kitchen and put that damn meat hook away!"

"No way!" Lucia laughed, followed by a shrieking pained yelp. "One down! Next?"

"Go for the eyes Lu go for the eyes!" someone croaked with a high pitched voice.

"Shut up Rook and get me some poison vials!" Lucia barked back.

"Fuck yes! Poison Poison!" Rook cawed.

More fire rained down from the sky, filling the sky with the smell of burning flesh and singed hair which reminded Cicero of how awfully hungry he was. Squinting against the bright flash, Cicero took on a defensive stance until he could see clearly again.

How the mage avoided hitting any of the villagers, he didn't know. Though, still feeling like being put through the mill, he was sincerely grateful for the help and even if some of the helpers got burned, it was better than being dead.

"MID VUR SHAAN" Myrabeth bellowed, her skin beginning to glow with a bluish hue. She dashed forward, slashing at throats and wrists. "I'll make so you pay for robbing me of my beauty sleep you damn worms!"

A severed hand flew past Cicero's face, training his face with droplets of blood. Deep inside of him a murderous frenzy came alive, lifting its fanged head like a coiled snake ready to strike. So much blood! And beautiful death! His lips parted into a menacing grin. The Dance of Silence had begun, and everyone was invited to join.

His free hand surged forward, clawing into the chainmail of a much larger opponent, pulling him down with one brutal hitch where death waited. One quick stab and the shimmering blade sank deep inside the bowels of his prey, and Cicero began to hum a dirge as liquid crimson ran down the hilt onto his hand. Pushing the dying man away, he was already searching for the next victim before the last dead corpse hit the ground.

"Watch it Cicero," Myrabeth warned next to him, while she rammed both blades into the eye sockets of her target. "Swing that near me again, and it will never swing again!"

What she meant by that, he didn't know and he didn't care either. He leapt forward, lunged at his next prey – some damn hideous looking Bosmer. Moving swiftly, whirling around the fighting masses his blade became a deadly blur, eliciting screams and groan from dying bodies.

Like an artist he painted the streets with their blood, uncaring if he hit friend or foe. Another corpse ended up in front of his feet, adding more detail to his chosen canvas. Someone called his name, demanding of him to stop. But he didn't answer; there was no time for idle chit chat.

Hadn't Myrabeth and Rose grabbed him by the shoulders, he would have attacked the approaching guards, too, who had their pikes on low point directed at him. Struggling against the two women, they dragged back inside the house where the Listener pushed him angrily against the wall, her black dagger at his throat.

"If you don't rope it down and come back to your senses in an instant…" she hissed, showing him her other dagger, "…I'll make sure that you're going to need a straw to take a piss from now on!"

Taking a deep breath, Cicero's body sagged against the wall. A splinter bit into his bare back, and that was when he became aware of the lack of clothes. Where was his motley? Why was he naked? Blushing deeply, his hands went in a protective position over his manhood. Had he been really that drugged?

"Why is Cicero naked?" he croaked against the menacing edge against his tender skin, afraid she would cut deeper. "What have you done with my motley…"

The blade moved away from his throat, "Can't bathe you with your clothes on..."

Now he was perplexed. "You bathed Cicero… that's a joke, right? I am the one who does the jokes, and you woman - aren't funny at all."

From the corner of his eyes he saw Lucia looking him over, her eyes wide and her smudged cheeks flushed deep red.

"Lu, stop ogling his cock and get me one of my breeches before you begin to drool. Maybe that brown shirt out of the chest, too," Myrabeth sighed, taking a step backward. "Your stench left me no choice and my grandmother wouldn't allow me to drop you in the chicken bawn."

Rose joined her side and whistled. "My my, awake you look far more appetizing than asleep. Don't you worry dearie. If she doesn't want you, in my bed is always room for one more."

Speechless, he gazed from Myrabeth to Rose. A vicious Listener, a lecherous old lady and other weird beings living under this roof. Could his life get any stranger? Shrinking away from the woman, he inched toward the stairs hoping for Lucia to be back soon. The girl might have stared at him, but at least she had some manners – despite her bad choice of words.

Myrabeth's nose wrinkled. "I had no idea you like your meat bloody?"

Rose laughed. "Depends. But you're right. We will have to haul some more water. Can't have you running around like filthy butcher's mutts."

Sighing, Myrabeth turned toward the destroyed door. "I'll see what the guards found out. I doubt those have been bandits looking for loot." On her way out she kicked at a pile of debris. "Aranea, would you be so kind and seek out Lod. We need to repair this mess before Ashlyn returns. Don't need her to see this…"

A robed dunmeri woman walked away from the stairs, nodding. "I'll see if I can find him. He's probably with the others collecting the dead."

Cicero looked around, hoping to find a cover for his male dignity. Being naked made him feel vulnerable and with so many women around, it only increased his discomfort. Shame wasn't natural to him, yet being bare skinned wasn't either. Right now, he very much would prefer being dressed in his smelly jester's suit.

"Here, hope it will fit. Aunt Myra has a real fat arse, for an elf" Lucia said, throwing a pair of dark grey leather pants at him.

"I heard that!" came from outside.

Despite the embarrassing state he was in, he couldn't hide the grin. "Cicero is most grateful for the clothes."

Inwardly he prayed the pants would fit. He was a little taller than Myrabeth, not to mention the male accessories between his legs. So chances were for the pants being too light or too short. Quickly, not caring for the blood covering his skin, he slipped into the breeches and noted with some surprise that it actually had a cod piece, made for a man and not for a woman. He decided not to ask where she got those from.

Tapping her foot, Lucia watched him dressing up. "You can help me with tidying up the place when you are done admiring yourself." Wiping off some of the dirt from her face, she looked around. "Who were they and why have they attacked us? Our house isn't even the wealthiest looking building nor build near the outer walls."

Cicero shrugged. "Maybe it had something to do with your aunt's reputation?"

Her hand went through her hair, pushing stubborn strands out of her eyes. "I hope not. Don't want to move away again, not after having found some nice friends."

This was something he could agree with. Having the Listener moving away from the Dark Brotherhood wasn't a prospect he cherished, either. He needed her nearby, and not finding another loophole. Not that their unholy matron would allow her Listener to run off, though he knew that wench well enough to keep a close eye on her.

After what seemed like an eternity, picking up shards of glass, broken pottery and other vandalized left overs, Myrabeth returned. A dark cloud of doom hung around her, and Cicero could feel the fury radiating from those unnatural blue eyes. Hadn't her eyes been golden, like that of an Altmer, a few moments ago?

"I'll have to get a message to my sister," she said and went down the basement.

Cicero's head turned her direction, his eyebrows drawn up, "Listener, do you think that's a good idea? You told Cicero that she isn't in a good shape for bad news, and this most definitely isn't good news. How do you intend to get it to her, anyway?"

She stopped dead, one hand on the bannister, her voice a deep growl. "What happened here tonight changed everything and Ash needs to know before she returns. Even if it means I have to use a messenger."

A bucket clattered to the ground, as Lucia stood next to Cicero. "Can I come with you, downstairs?"

Looking defeated, Myrabeth nodded faintly, a little hesitant. "You can come, too Cicero. But keep your mouth shut, if you can help it."

"Lead on, Listener." Cicero shrugged, wiped off his hands.

Downstairs, the disgusting creature everyone called Rook jumped Myrabeth and clung to her leg like a sulking child. "Master… Rook was so scared! Are the uglies gone?"

Patting its head, Myrabeth gave him a small smile. "Yes, the uglies are gone." Then she went quiet, her eyebrows returning into an angry furrow as she kept staring down at Rook. "Lucia? Is this your doing?"

Inching away from her, Lucia smiled helplessly. "He wanted to look pretty…so I used some of mum's paint."

"You call that pretty? He's not some darn dolly you can play with!" Myrabeth snapped at her niece. "Rook, go and wipe that off your face. And get rid of whatever she has bound around your tail! You look goony… to say the least."

Rook's smeared lips turned into a sheepish grin. "Yes Mistress! Can Rook have some of the dead uglies when he is all nice and clean, again?"

Cicero's lips twitched in disgust. A scamp? That was Myrabeth's pet scamp? He had hoped Lucia had been joking and referred to something else, and his encounter with this beast had been just some trick of his mind. How could they allow this filthy creature from Oblivion living with them under one roof?

Darkly glowering eyes fixated him. "Rook is part of the family and you will treat my familiar nicely! Are we understood, Cicero?"

"You're in my head again, Listener?" Cicero snarled.

He disliked her ability to snoop around his thoughts. No one had any business to be in there, besides him and his friend. The only other being he would welcome with open arms, was the night mother. But she had chosen not to speak to her Keeper.

Myrabeth snarled back,"…. Are … we … understood?"

Not being in any state to hide his dislike for Rook, Cicero nodded begrudgingly, "But don't expect Cicero being friends with it!"

The black maliciously sparkling eyes stared back at him. "Rook will go now upstairs…Mistress."

A hand came to rest on his arm, tugging at him for attention. "Can we bitch at each other later?"

Throwing her arms into the air, Myrabeth swore under her breath before pointing into the dark room, where Cicero had blacked out yesterday. "Get in there and be quiet while I prepare everything."

Inside the room, he dropped to his haunches where Lucia joined him. Together, they leaned against a crammed shelf, full of books and boxes. Not very comfortable, but by far better than standing. After a few moments of sitting, the earlier surge of adrenaline had evaporated, leaving him drained and feeling very tired.

While he watched Myrabeth unfolding a long staff, his eyes began to droop and he could have sworn to hear the soft whispering voices from his dream each time he drifted off into something that appeared like a daydream. Maybe the drug was still working. Cicero didn't mind. But apparently Lucia didn't like him falling asleep. Her boney elbow brought him back into the here and now.

"You better don't snooze when Myrabeth summons a Dremora," she explained as quietly as possible. "One never knows in what mood they are when they appear…"

That had his attention. "Summoning a Dremora? Where is Ashlyn that it requires a Dremora to deliver a message?"

Lucia sat straight in an attempt to look all smug. "Somewhere in Oblivion."

"You better had kept that to yourself," Myrabeth grumbled, without turning around to face them. "He hates Daedra… which is sort of a pity, considering who he's actually serving."

All blood drained from his face, running downward his spine in icy cold pinpricks. "Are you…" he stammered, but had to swallow a few times before he could speak. "Are you Daedra worshiper – all of you?"

Now, Myrabeth turned around and graced him with one of her evil smirks. "Haven't I told you already not to ask questions you don't want to know the answer to? Now shut up and drop on your ass."

"Listener!" he exclaimed at her heretic notions.

"Drop on your ass, I said!" Myrabeth warned him, and then she turned around facing him. "You have your secrets and my family has its secrets, as well. Now shut the fuck up and let me get over with it!"

Lucia mumbled something incomprehensive about adults and moon bleeding. It was when she reached out for his hand, and looked him deep into his eyes as if she wanted to say something terribly reasonable. However, the twitching corners of her mouth gave away that she was close to a guffaw. Insolent brat! They were all making fun of him. There was no other explanation.

"Does it really have to be a Dremora?" he asked, preparing himself for another verbal attack.

"Well, if our beloved night mother wouldn't have severed the link between me and my sister, I wouldn't have to," Myrabeth snapped. "So the answer is, yes. It has to be a Dremora."

His mouth opened, and closed at her angry glare. What she had said was a simple fact he couldn't deny nor ignore. Unable to come up with an argument against her explanation, he grumbled a curse and crumpled back on his backside.

"Calm down or she will bite your head off!" the young Imperial replied, now showing her amusement. "Auntie, do you always have to be such an ass?"

"What a nice little girl you are," Myrabeth sneered while she scrutinized the rose staff, "First you call me a bitch, then you accuse me of biting people's heads off, telling me that I have a fat ass, now you call me one. Really! Why am I putting up with you, anyway? I could be in my bed, sleeping… instead of taking care of everything."

"Because you love me?" Lucia dared, her lower lip pushed forward.

"Riiight…next time I use you as dragon bait! Let's see he how the big lizards react toward your pout…" Myrabeth's cloud of doom intensified, drenching the room with a heavily bleak mood. "Do you have the slightest shimmer of who might have attacked us tonight, huh?"

Falling silent, Lucia let go of Cicero's hand. "Vigilantes of Stendarr?"

Myrabeth raised her hand in a dismissive gesture. "Unfortunately, no. They are dangerous, but not that dangerous. What we faced tonight was the prelude to something far worse – and well, this just has been a friendly warning from Molag Bal. Next time it won't be that harmless."

Back on his feet, Cicero ignored the piercing pain running through his muscles. "The Night Mother won't tolerate your worship of Daedra!"

Shaking her head, Myrabeth placed the rose staff on a small altar. "First of all, you don't tell me what I can do and cannot do! The Night Mother only asked me to get rid of my wolf blood. Nothing more! " With a glare at Lucia, she walked over to him, getting hold of both his shoulders. "Second. I do not worship Molag Bal. Now get back on your behind and listen carefully, before I make it acquainted with my shit-kicker!"

He went back down into a sitting position. Not certain if he would like what would come next, Cicero kept his eyes at the ground. "I am all ears Listener, but do not expect Cicero to like it."

Sitting down in front of him, she crossed her legs. "Very well, but if you flip, I'll knock you out. I do not care if you like it or not – you will accept it or the deal is off. Are we understood?"

He lifted his chin at her. "Cicero doesn't flip!"

"Good," she replied, pointing at Lucia. "And you keep that pert gap of yours tightly closed, yes?"

Lucia nodded, signaling her aunt with a gesture that she would be as quiet as a grave. So they sat there for a few moments, Cicero regarding the Listener, while the girl toyed with her hair.

"Look Cicero. Ashlyn once told you what and who we are. You had no issues back then, so why now?" Myrabeth asked – he could sense the tension in her body. "Besides, you can't be a common mortal either. Humans don't live over two hundred years and look like mid thirty! So cut me some fucking slack here!"

"I believed it to be to some tall tale of a child craving attention…" he whispered, deeply disturbed by his own ignorance. "And why Cicero lives that long he has no answer to."

"We were hardly children with twenty three! Young, yes, but not children anymore," Myrabeth retorted, but tuned her voice down a notch. "You have no idea why you haven't aged the last two hundred years? Are you kidding me?"

"Cicero doesn't know the why and how. It just… is…," he admitted meekly.

As Myrabeth tilted his face back to her, so she could look him in the eyes. "So tell me. Does it really bother you so much that my sister and I are the descendants of the Mad God and that we have ties to Oblivion? Who knows, maybe you do, too…"

"Does Cicero have a choice? You're the Listener… so even if it bothered the poor Fool of Hearts, I couldn't change it anyway" he replied sourly, having no desire to even think about being the bastard spawn of some demonic creature. "Cicero can't be of demonic origin. No I cannot be. I have mother and father, Cicero knew them both!"

With a brisk nod, Myrabeth rose from the ground. "Very well. Suit yourself. So, I am going to summon a Dremora, he will carry a message back to Oblivion for us. I want you to sit on your backside – only, and by that I mean, only, intervene when you see I am in deep trouble – which I do not believe will happen."

His gaze moved over to Lucia a couple of times. She sat there, all calm and relaxed. Not the slightest hint of fear or panic. It was more the opposite. The way she smiled and twitched enthusiastically, he had to assume the girl knew everything about the two women. Cicero inwardly shook his head. Had he known them at all? Back then he believed them to be freaks of nature, the result of an extremely mixed elven heritage.

"Cicero?" Myrabeth asked, picking up the staff from the altar.

Snapping out of his thoughts, he met her gaze evenly. "Cicero will stay put and not move, even if spiders are going to eat my face…"

"Well, then be happy I am not going to summon one of those Spider-Daedra," she said.

Both her hands gripped the wooden staff. Myrabeth's blue eerie eyes fixed a point in front of her, focusing.

The staff began to glow, emitting a low hum. As she pointed the rose tipped end away from her a dark purplish swirling mass of energy exploded in the center of the small room, revealing a heavily armored and very angry looking Dremora swinging a two handed sword at its conjurer. The blade bit into the ceiling with a painful screech of metal against stone - without reducing the momentum of the attack.

Lucia yelped a warning, and Myrabeth cursed and lifted the staff to block the inexorable cleave. Cicero flinched, the staff groaned under the brutal impact, sending Myrabeth down onto her knees.

This was too much; the spiders could kiss Cicero's behind and eat his face another time. Not willing to wait for the monster to launch another attack at the Listener, he darted from his sitting position toward the Dremora.

"Don't Cicero!" Myrabeth yelled, but it was too late.

The impact with the hulking mass was painful and bone rattling, but not as painful as the armor clad hand closing around his throat, lifting him into the air. "Damn you wench! You really could have warned me before using the staff!" Black eyes so deep and ethereal like Oblivion itself stared at Cicero. "What is this? Some scrawny human trying to fight me? I thought you had better taste when it comes to your fuck-trophies…"

"Let go of him Sanguine. He thought you were going to kill me…" she tried to appease him, putting her hands on his forearm."Please?"

That huge bulking creature was Sanguine, the daedric prince of debauchery? Cicero's stomach began to churn, fighting the huge soggy lump from going upwards. Somehow, he doubted that the infernal being would let him live should he vomit all over its armor.

The demonic face lit up, a little too fast for Cicero's taste, and a low rumbling chuckle came past its lips. "Alright Myrabeth. But just this once and you owe me for that!" The smile turned into a menacing snarl. "Now to you mortal! Consider yourself lucky, today. I don't tend to tolerate any insolence against my person." The hand around his neck opened, and Cicero dropped to the ground like a wet sack. "Next time I am not so lenient…"

"Uncle Sanny, don't be so mean – he just wanted to protect aunt Myra.," Lucia chirped, running past Cicero straight into the demon's arms.

"Awww. You're so sweet, too sweet for this rude world. Don't fret darling. As long as he behaves around me, he stays unharmed," Sanguine said, eying him from the side. "So my pretty prankster, have you missed your uncle Sanny?"

Lucia rubbed her cheek against the fierce looking armor. "Yep. So boring without you…"

Myrabeth groaned and rolled her eyes. "Please! Could we get down to business, yes?"

While he still collected his ego and hurting body, Cicero watched the girl hugging the dark skinned monster's armored chest, as he lifted her up. Sanguine appeared be pleased about her transgression - instead of pushing her away or worse, he began tussling her hair with an affection highly unusual for such an immortal monster. The mere thought made him sick.

"Get over it mortal," Sanguine growled in his direction, hugging the girl close.

Peeved, Cicero scrambled back to his feet. "Stay out of my head stealer of souls!"

Lips curled, Sanguine sneered. "Then stop thinking so loud. In your head is nothing I really want to know - you little stuffy hypocrite. Stealer of souls… pfeh… and that from some puny assassin who enjoys dooming poor mortal souls to a drab existence in the Void."

"Stop it! Both of you!" Myrabeth demanded, her hands propped on her hips. "I haven't summoned you," she pointed at Sanguine and then at Cicero, "and not allowed you in here, so the two of you can insult each other!"

Releasing Lucia from his embrace, Sanguine sighed. "Indeed. And you really have a talent to pick the worst moments for summoning me. Was about to defend my borders against Ebon Arm's bootlicks…so make it quick, what is it you want?"

"I need to talk to Ashlyn and I had no idea it would be you answering the summon," she replied, gesturing Cicero to stay where he was. "Molag Bal sent his lackeys to attack us one or two hours ago and she needs to know before she returns!"

Sanguine's forehead crinkled, and only from the crimson tattoo on his face Cicero could figure that he was creasing his eyebrows into a deep frown. "Told you it would come to this!"

Arms crossed, Myrabeth leaned against the altar. "Spare me your lecture! We had discussed this already back at Markarth. So, can I talk to my sister or not?"

"How do I break this to you…" with a sigh, he propped the large sword against the wall behind him and began to pace. "The thing is. You can't, because your sister isn't at my realm for the time being."

"What?" Myrabeth yelled. "I trusted you with her wellbeing! Where is she now?"

Cicero felt uneasy about her statement. Had the Listener really trusted a daedric prince with her sister's life and soul? How could she, how dare her! Both their heads turned his direction, blue and black eyes narrowed in anger, signaling him to stay out of this.

But before Cicero could retort anything, Sanguine raised his hand for silence. "Myra! Tune it down, will you? I did what I could for her. But the rest is up to your sister, and Azura agreed to guide her through this. My sibling is much better suited for this kind of aid."

Throwing her arms into the air, Myrabeth growled. "Great. Sipping tea, chatting all day about flowers and gardening… petting a Twilight now and then. We both know what a tattle Azura can be!"

"Watch it! I won't tolerate any rude comments about my favorite sister…" Sanguine warned.

"Then get going and tell my sister what happened here!" she exclaimed, ignoring his glare by studying her nails.

Inwardly enjoying the way how she treated the powerful being in front of her, Cicero kept his distance, watching them discussing the next steps. That woman was horrible. Not even a daedric prince was spared her temper and it somehow gave him solace to know this.

Though, at the other hand it would also explain her defiance toward their dark mother. He would have to observe this in the near future. A rebellious Daedra worshiping Listener wasn't such a good asset for the Brotherhood. She had to learn to respect their rules, if not, he would teach her!

Lucia tugged at his arm. "Come, we better leave them to quarrel. Looks like, we won't get to see anything interesting, any time soon."

He followed the girl upstairs, not looking back. Perhaps resuming their cleanup would take off his mind from that unpleasant encounter.

They began picking up more of the rubble. Some of the furniture would have to replaced, as they were beyond repair. Most of the stoneware had been cracked, some of the baskets were ripped. Had he slept through most of the fight? He couldn't remember fighting inside the house.

Lucia must have noticed his brooding silence. Moving closer, she bumped her shoulder into his. "Do you hate aunt Myra and my mom, now?"

He froze, averted his eyes, not willing to meet her questioning eyes. "No."

Apparently unhappy with his curtly answer, she asked. "But why are you so angry about my family being what they are?"

"The Dark Brotherhood frees souls of mortals from their suffering, returning them to the void where they rightfully belong. The Daedra are corrupter, defiler and monster who hunt down and devour the souls that belong to Sithis! That's why!" Cicero said, hoping she would understand.

The girl shrugged. "Not all Daedra are the same, and if you know how to deal with them some of their kind can be really friendly and forthcoming."

"Why Sanguine," he asked. He couldn't help it, but he needed to know why he had appeared instead of some lesser Daedra. Daedric princes just didn't appear like that. "Why this foul corrupter and not any other prince – like Azura?"

Lucia sighed. "Well, he is sort of a friend to the family. My mom likes him very much."

Leaning against the wall behind him, Cicero rubbed his eyes. "Please, at least you explain to Cicero what happened with Ashlyn – why she is … was with him. It's unsettling and confusing at the same time to know only half and the worst of the whole story."

Lucia joined him, sitting down to his left with her legs crossed. "Aunt Myra hasn't told me everything, either. They were at Markarth, and something horrible happened there – nearly killing my Mom. That incident changed her, and bringing her to Oblivion was the only way to help her. More I do not know."

Slightly appeased by this meager scrap of information, he asked "And what is your connection to the Daedra? Is Sanguine your real uncle?"

"He allowed me to call him uncle Sanny or Sam after I did a few tasks for him." Getting back to her feet, she shoved the bucket toward the broken door. "Now stop being such a fraidy-cat. He's really nice, and I doubt my mom would be happy if she found out you hate Daedra. Because, she likes you very much, too – even if she doesn't admit it openly."

A piece of wood fell to the ground with, clattering away. "What makes you say that?"

"She has drawings of you hidden away in her dresser. Found them when I was looking for a book," Lucia explained lightly, not caring about the weird look on his face. "Well, she also has drawings of Sanguine. But those are… erm… "

Not wanting to hear more, Cicero stood up and put his hand over her mouth. "Please, spare Cicero the details. No need to tell the poor jester more."

And he wanted a good night sleep after this, which wouldn't possible if he dreamt about naked black skinned Daedra's swinging swords at him.

A muffled laugh pressed against his hand, and she had to tilt her head to the side so she could speak. "Aww, so you're jealous?"

"Cicero is not jealous!" he said peevishly.

Still laughing, she threw a tattered piece of table cloth at him. "Alright. If you insist! Though I wonder who will get into your pants, first. My grandma or my aunt… you should have seen their eyes as they looked at your… uhm…"

"One more word about this and Cicero will stuff that filthy rag into your mouth," he growled, holding up the cloth she had thrown at him. Enough was enough!

"Molag Ball's." she giggled, though the mirth didn't last. "From what I figured, you're an assassin – you steal souls for Sithis. So why the _'holier than you'_ attitude. Sanguine isn't at least about killing people – he's about fun!"

"Aren't you a little too young for this kind of conversation?" Cicero asked testily.

"I am fourteen years old. Most girls my age are already married and have birthed loads of babies," she replied, now looking very disgruntled. "And before you ask why I know you being an assassin who serves Sithis – and not just some friend. I found my mom's and aunt's leather armor with the Black Hand insignia… they can't hide anything from me so they don't even try anymore!"

Tossing another piece of broken pottery into his bucket, Cicero's gaze turned hard. "You're lucky times have changed. There are things you shouldn't know. You better listen to Cicero, when I tell you that knowledge is not always beneficial to your health."

Now she frowned. "Knowledge is power… and knowledge is what made me accept what my family actually is and does."

"Then let's hope that knowledge won't bite you in the ass one day," Cicero replied, not interested in continuing this discussion.

That girl was impossible, the shining example what happened to children who hadn't experienced proper parenting. Not that he was any better suited than Ashlyn, however, he at least hadn't taken in a fosterling knowing he couldn't offer what a child needed.

Her lips turned to a slim line, as if she was mulling something over. "So, are you really over two hundred years old?"

"Cicero is two hundred and forty six years old years old. More you don't need to know!" he replied.

"Wow, that's really old for an Imperial. Do you think I can get that old, too?" she asked, her eyes glittering with hope. "Don't want to become a wrinkled old prune."

"Why can't you just drop it?" Severely annoyed by her endless stream of questions, he tugged at her ear. "Let's make a deal. You stop badgering me, and Cicero shows you how to fight with short blades," he offered, hoping she would change the topic.

As smug as a cat, she grabbed for his hand, "Deal!"

Satisfied for now, he nodded yet it was certain she would bug him about his age again someday. And chances were good, if he trained the brat, the Listener would fall in line – if not for the Dark Brotherhood then for Ashlyn. Back at Cyrodiil they had a saying – win the friendship of a child and you win the heart of its mother.

Caging a sigh of content at his final plan, he relaxed a little. The Dark Brotherhood needed a Listener – he needed Myrabeth to be the Listener. Cicero went back to the floor, brooding over the next steps to take, while he helped Lucia reducing the chaos in her wrecked home.

oooooOOOOooooo

The morning began as bad as Myrabeth's mood. Her verbal barrage tore through the early morning hours, chasing Rook out of his basket, straight over Cicero's makeshift bed where the Scamp slipped recklessly under the sheets.

It took a great deal of self-control not to reach for his dagger under his pillow and stabbing that annoying creeper in the face. Couldn't that cowardly scamp pick any other place, why does it always chose Cicero's resting place?

"Get out of my bed!" Cicero seethed, fist balled and ready to deal some serious pain.

Rook's head moved underneath the sheet. "That Rook's bed! You only can have because Mistress said so!"

Lips curled in disgust, Cicero slipped out of bed. "Cicero doesn't want your filthy bed. If Cicero had known, I rather would have slept on the ground!"

"Rook can have bed back?" the creature asked, still hiding under the sheet.

"Whatever…" Cicero replied while getting dressed.

The angry voices were a little calmer now, though from what Cicero could pick up from down here, the entire family had gathered. Lucia complained about wanting to stay here, Rose suggested to wait for Ashlyn before doing anything foolish and Myrabeth groaned in frustration.

As he left the basement behind, he noted with some surprise how clean everything was again. Usually his sleep wasn't that tight and the slightest noise had him alarmed. Entering the kitchen, everyone turned to face him, except for the only male among the women. The Nord looked quite grim, and from what Cicero had been able to gather, he wasn't a bearer of good news.

"Look who is here…," Myrabeth grumbled. "I hope you haven't killed Rook. He was supposed to wake you up."

Grimacing, he sat next to Lucia. "Cicero wasn't aware he was sleeping in that scamp's bed…"

"Next time you can sleep with the chicken. The fresh air might do you some good," Myrabeth replied, turning her attention back to her guest. "Tell Siddgeir he has to make us a much better offer, if he really wants us to leave Falkreath. We did plenty of good for the people here, and now he can't treat us like unwelcome filth!"

"That's Jarl Siddgeir for you, elf! What came of your so called good deeds we could witness last night! Daedra worshiper in our little village – because of you. Good men died!" the Nord barked, having Rose flinch and Cicero narrowing his eyes.

Myrabeth stood with her dagger in her hand, her chair bouncing backwards. "Lower your voice human! This is still my house and next time you yap at me I will butcher you like the dog you are!"

"Calm down dear. I am sure he is only doing his job," Rose said, holding the younger woman back. "But I have to agree with my granddaughter. The jarl will have to come up with a better offer. Four hundred gold pieces aren't exactly enough for a fresh start."

Myrabeth snarled. "Listen Helvard, for all we did for this mud-hole I expect either as much gold as I have paid for this house or a new house in another Hold! I am sure he can arrange something."

Stifling a groan, Cicero resisted the urge to object. Another Hold? He couldn't afford losing her, not now. This would require now some quick thinking. And that was what he did, while they discussed the terms with the angry Nord.

Scratching the stubbles on his head, Helvard eased back into his chair. "I'll talk to the jarl, but he won't like your request."

"I couldn't care less – as long as he pays up," Myrabeth shrugged, sheathing her dagger. "Now go. I want to get over with it before this night can repeat itself."

Disgruntled and obviously glad leaving the house, the Nord left the table without the slightest gesture of courtesy. Everyone went silent, staring in front of them at some non-existing spot on the table.

As the makeshift door banged shut, shuddering under the rough treatment Lucia was the first to speak, and she looked as miserable as her voice sounded. "Can I stay here? I could move in with Shazza. Her parents have a guest room I can sleep in. I really do not want to move again…"

"No!" all three women said in unison – and it was a very final _'no'_.

"How about Dawnstar?" Cicero offered.

Myrabeth's eyes turned thoughtful. "Maybe. The place has its charms. Though, I would prefer Markarth for the time being. There we are save at least."

"Save?" Rose looked annoyed. "That's where it started! I suggest Morthal. I have friends there and the climate is not as rough."

"What started in Markarth – is whatever happened there the reason why is Molag Bal after you?" Lucia asked.

"That's the place where we pissed off Molag Bal," Myrabeth replied, her arms crossed. "I doubt he will come looking for us there. The shrine is dead, powerless and the city is heavily guarded. Besides all that, the Jarl there had offered me already to purchase Vlindrel Hall. It's homey and secure enough to be defended easily. Try to kick in a dwarven metal door…"

Another discussion broke loose. Pro Markarth, contra Dawnstar and in-between Morthal. Cicero didn't like where this was going. Even Riften had been mentioned. He liked Riften, a nice city for shady people. Though, it was so awfully far away – and that wasn't good for his plans. Markarth wasn't his first choice either, but the given circumstances it might be as well the best possible pick. Ashlyn wouldn't live there forever – maybe, if he could win them for Dawnstar – he would have the Listener in place, when he reinstated the ancient Sanctuary there.

After a few moments of consideration, weighing, and mulling the said Cicero offered. "Can Cicero be of any help?"

Myrabeth looked him over, her expression pondering. "Maybe. You could go to Whiterun and deliver a message to old friends of mine."

Lucia's eyes lit up. "The Companions?"

Looking very tired now, Myrabeth nodded. "All of the Companions. We'll need all the help we can get – and I don't want to travel the road without proper protection."

"Do you really need the help of the companions?" Cicero blurted, having now four angry pairs of eyes glaring at him. "Sorry…" he winced.

He didn't want the Companions anywhere near Myrabeth nor being involved. They would just get in the way, that's what goodie-two-shoes always did. And having to divide her attention between family and Dark Brotherhood was more than Cicero was willing to tolerate without protest and counter-measures.

Myrabeth took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes. "Yes I need their help. They are capable fighters and I trust them with my life. Don't believe me and Ash being invincible. We are mongrels and not daedric princes. We bleed, we become sick and we can die like any other mortal."

Being certain she was leaving out a small yet important detail escaping Cicero's grasp, he nodded in acknowledgement. "Whiterun it is… but Cicero wants his motley back before I leave!"

"That stinky rag?" Aranea asked, her mouth drawn in disgust. "We got rid of it. It was torn and beyond repair…"

Speechless, Cicero stared down in front of him. His motley gone? No more Fool of Hearts?

"What is Cicero supposed to wear?" His voice was low, almost breathless from the shock.

"I'll have plenty of looted armor stashed away at the basement. You're welcome to it," Myrabeth replied.

They didn't understand. His motley was part of his identity. How could they have tossed it away just like that? Stinky or not, it carried memories and history – it was his anchor and reminder of who he was.

"Cicero demands his motley…" he said, anger rising.

Tilting her head to the side, Myrabeth clicked her tongue. "You can't wear it like that! You know what – I'll make you an offer. You get going, and I'll fish that dirty thing from the heap. When you return, it will be clean – even I can't do much about the rips and holes…"

Counting to ten, he reminded himself of her importance. Listener or not, no one touched his motley. "Cicero agrees…." He sniffed, still angry and not yet convinced she really would do so.

oooooOOOOooooo

Alarmed by the scenery of destruction, Cicero searched the ruins of Helgen for bandits or any other ilk who might consider this their new hideout. He had heard about dragon attacks, but never had seen any. Maybe Sithis would like the offering of a dragon soul? He was certain Myrabeth wouldn't mind some help should she hunt down one of those impressive beasts.

Dwelling on that thought, but still watchful of his surroundings he wound his way through the shattered gate, leaving the sacked city behind. A little less than a day and he would reach Riverwood, where he would allow himself the luxury of a real bed.

Maybe some wine and cheese along with fresh bread to celebrate his little temporary freedom. Cicero smiled. Away from the Dark Brotherhood, no one of them would ever know if he took a life. Only the night mother, but she was safe for now.

He had stayed his blade long enough, always served without questioning. He had guarded the corpse with his life, kept his eyes open and ignoring his own desires when temptation crossed his path.

Now he felt the need to reclaim what he had lost when he had been chosen to become Keeper. A dark need, whispering and driving him onward relentlessly and he wanted to oblige, uncaring about any consequences.

It was unlikely the dark mother would begrudge him one more kill and if she did, he would pay penance if the need arose. She wouldn't have her only Keeper punished with death, not when they were so few.

_'Maybe Cicero could start with some homeless beggar?'_ He mused, listening into the silence of his mind.

No answer, neither negative nor positive. Again, he shrugged and took it as a good sign. No one would miss a beggar.

_'What if there was no beggar?'_ Cicero thought, but discarded the unwelcome possibility.

Soon he surrendered his turmoiled mind, fantasizing about the best way of murdering someone in plain daylight, or in the middle of a crowd. Blind to the landscape around him, it kept him entertained for most of the time on his rather uneventful journey.

Not even his stay at the Sleeping Giant Inn had provided him any victim, and in the end only two bottles of wine ensured a good night's rest. At least the overall aches were gone the next day he left Riverwood.

About two days later, when he reached Whiterun in the gloom of dawn, the city was already on its feet. Busy merchants had setup their stands, arranging their wares. One of them already haggling and arguing with an eager customer, who didn't agree on the price. The other chased a dog away from his stall, where he offered all sorts of meat. From somewhere behind, the clanking of metal on metal tore through the early morning, probably a blacksmith beginning his day's work.

The last time he had been here, the city hadn't been so alive and it made him nervous. Children chased past him, squealing at each other in delight while mothers called after them. It had him flinch. He wasn't used being among people anymore. Being social, having conversation with those who weren't his sisters and brothers – a long time ago it had been part of his life, now he avoided it at all costs.

For now, he would stop at the Bannered Mare. Cicero hoped they had a clean bed and some warm food around this time. Feeling into his pouch he counted twenty-six septims between his fingers and decided to go along with his growling stomach.

Sorting his thoughts, he ambled toward the tavern. Barely inside, he heard the wretched whimper of a distressed animal coming from the dense foliage. Though, it was the sadistic laughter of a child which startled him, causing him to shift his intention from a hot meal toward the gruesome noise.

Usually not mincing, nor having much capacity for compassion he snuck inside the dense wall of leaves and twigs. There was the smell of burnt flesh or fur in the air. Slowly, causing as less noise as possible he closed in – the squeaks turned more frantic but weaker.

A girl sat on the ground, her hands covered in dancing flames and in front of her was a small cage, harboring a rather large rodent. The poor animal cowered in the farthest corner in a futile attempt to avoid merciless scorching heat coming from her hands.

First Cicero had believed it to be a skeever, but as he became aware of the ears and snout his heart clenched. It was a rat. He liked rats. Long ago, he had a rat companion accompanying him wherever he went.

"What do you think you're doing, you rotten little cockroach!" he hissed.

The girl flinched, but didn't extinguish the magical fire. "What're you lookin' at? I'm not afraid of you, ya know. Even if you are my elder."

Putting poisoned sweetness into his words, Cicero focused on her hands while he slowly formed a fist with his left hand. "Not afraid you say? Well too bad … for you…" His fist opened, releasing the shimmering green energy.

"Wha…" Barely breathing, her eyes went wide as the words stuck in her throat as her body went rigid, unable to move. He loved that spell.

The last time he had used his magical abilities had been back at Cyrodiil. The time he had been sealed up in the ruined Sanctuary, practicing magical incantations had been the only pastime activity besides tending to the Night Mother.

Pleased about fear radiating off the girl, he moved closer and went down into a crouch. "How does it feel to be trapped, unable to escape?" Cupping her chin, he forced her to look him in the eyes. "Next time you torture an animal, pray I won't catch you – because if I do, you will feel the very same pain on your filthy skin!"

Gently, yet with some cruel finality, he put her to the ground looking down at her with despise. _'And they say children are innocent beings… there is no such thing as innocence – especially not in a child!'_

Turning around, he took a closer look at the cage. The rat lay flat on the ground, eyes large in terror. Cicero could have sworn to hear the rapidly beating heart of the poor thing.

"Looks I found myself a new pet rat!" he mumbled while opening cage. "Do not fret my little friend. Cicero will be good with you…" Slowly he reached into the cage.

Squeaking weakly, the rat pressed harder into her corner. But before he could get hold of the animal, it darted forward sinking its sharp teeth into his glove. It had been fortunate that he had listened to Myrabeth and agreed to wear some decent armor. If he hadn't, that finger would be perforated and bleeding now.

Determined to rescue his new little friend, he carefully scooped it up in his hands. Now he needed something to hide the critter in. Most people hated rats, considered them disgusting creatures without a second thought. It didn't take long, and Cicero freed himself of his knapsack one handedly, while he tried to keep the wriggling rat in the other. For now, he would put it in there, and treating its wounds once he had a room where no one could disturb him.

"Braith, breakfast!" a woman, causing Cicero to hasten his endeavor.

He couldn't risk being seen with a paralyzed girl next to him. No matter her crime, no one would consider his actions just. Most would rather applaud her for decimating unwanted critters.

"Braith! I don't have all day and your milk is getting cold," the woman called again, this time much closer.

Cicero held his breath, closing the knapsack. He could only hope no one would want to know what he had hidden in there. The rat tugged away, he moved behind the tavern. With a bit of luck, no one had seen him vanishing inside the green. It was very unlikely that she would tell anyone what had occurred and if she did – she had to admit what she had done, which she probably would prefer to avoid.

Content with the situation and back on the street, he sauntered toward the tavern. The woman who had been calling out for Braith was still at the marketplace, looking for her child. For a brief moment, he stood in the doorway – smiling. If Braith was the little shit inside the bushes, she would get in some serious trouble for not obeying her mother. Served her right!

Inside, he strode toward the tavern wench behind the bar table busy taking away the leftovers from previous guests. "Saadia, wake up dear!" she called, gesturing him to sit down at the center of the tavern. "Come on in. Let me know if you need anything, or take a seat by the fire and I'll send someone over."

"On my way!" came from the kitchen, and a few moments later a young Redguard woman appeared, asking him "You want a drink?"

Cicero sat down on a bench, next to a drunken Nord with a gruff exterior. "What's on the menu?"

She stared at his twitching knapsack "Depends. Are you thirsty, hungry, both?" Then she frowned, her slips turning into slim line. "What have you got in there – I hope nothing vile?"

The knapsack hunched against his chest, he tried a small smile. "It's a gift for the daughter of a dear friend. A mechanical toy. Have no worries dear woman. Cicero carries nothing dangerous!" Inwardly he was annoyed _'Stupid nosey cow, mind your own business…' _

"If you say so. Just don't cause any trouble, yes? The tolerance for mischief is very low here," she explained, her arms crossed, eyes still on his wiggling bag. "What shall it be then? Food or drink?"

"A room for two days, and a warm meal with wine," he replied, hoping the rat would finally stop raging inside the knapsack. "Preferably the room, now, and if you had a carrot, Cicero would be grateful for it."

Locking gaze with Hulda, who nodded faintly, she turned her eyes back at him. "You're lucky. The room is free. That makes twenty gold for the room, and another three for the stew. Carrot is for free. Want some bread, too? We have some left-overs from yesterday."

Cicero hesitated a moment, not certain if he it was wise to spend so much money at once. Then again, what he wouldn't eat now he could eat later. He doubted the food at the other taverns would be any cheaper.

That sorted out, he told the barmaid to bring the food to his room, so he could eat without being disturbed. The noise in the main room had increased, and more people streamed in piling up for their early lunch.

Some of the previous guests were already severely drunk, and hooting vulgar songs while others placed bets on a set of dices. Drunk people had a tendency of being brash and overly social. A situation he would prefer to stay clear of before he couldn't pull it together anymore.

Upstairs, he closed the door behind him. Breathed a few times until the tension left his body. The sounds from the lower part of the tavern still crept through the thin wooden walls; however that was as much privacy as he could expect for ten septims per night.

Sitting down on the bed, he carefully unlatched the cover from his knapsack, hoping the rat hadn't crapped the inside too much. Even if rodent excrements weren't as nasty as those of other animals, yet it still wasn't easy to remove the mess once it soaked the leather and linen.

The rat poked its head out of the bag, sniffing at him before resuming its struggle. "Shhhh little friend, Cicero will patch you up. You'll see," he lulled with soft voice.

Over the last thirty years as Keeper he had refined his knowledge about herbs, oils and other useful substances used for preservation, healing – and killing. One of the few benefits the position as Keeper offered - and finally he could use them on a living being other than himself.

Reaching inside his pouch, he drew out a small stone box. Ever so gently, he propped the jerking animal between his legs, taking a closer look at the damage. Most of the fur on its back had been burned down to the skin. With one hand, he began fidgeting with the lid of the box, containing a healing salve. In the meanwhile his patient had found another target to sink its teeth in.

"You're a naughty one!" he scolded softly, laughed a little under his breath and began dabbing the salve onto its skin. "If you keep that up, dear Cicero will end up with pitted breeches!"

The fierce little bugger ignored the sentiment and kept demonstrating its lack of gratitude. After what seemed like an eternity and ending up with an extremely smudgy pants, he prevailed.

Satisfied with his work, he carefully shoved the creature back into his knapsack. "Forgive Cicero, but you need to go back into the bag… or the fair maid bringing us our meal might panic at your sight. We don't want that, yes?"

And it was not one moment too early he had done so. A knock at the door had him jump. The box with the salve rolled from the bed, clattered to the ground and vanished under one of the wardrobes.

Saadia poked her head in. "I hope I am not disturbing - have your meal ready."

He would have to grapple for the salve later, now he had to make sure the woman dropped off her load quickly, so she could leave him alone. "You have Cicero's thanks, please leave it over there."

She snuck into the room, a large tablet in her hand filled with bread, a large steaming bowl and several carrots. Surprised by the amount of food, which he hadn't ordered he threw her an inquiring look. If she wanted more septims, he would tell her to take the food back with her. Cicero would rather go hungry than spending his last reminding scraps of gold.

"We have so many carrots; I doubt Hulda would notice. Most of them usually end up with the pigs" she said, her smile warm.

Mumbling his gratitude, he lowered his eyes. "This is very kind of you…"

The gentle smile reflected in her eyes, as she inclined her head. "Don't mention it. We don't get customers from other provinces very often, and I am glad for every single one who doesn't aim for drunken torpor and turning pot-valiant."

So much kindness, and she didn't even know what he was hiding – she even didn't know him and what he was capable of. When had another human being been so nice to him? Ever since he had been chosen as Keeper, he had been lonely on a social level. As much as he revered the Night Mother; a corpse wasn't a very responsive counterpart.

"Need anything else?" Saadia asked, her hand on the door-handle.

Cicero only managed a short cut _'no'_ before the knapsack bulged violently in all directions. The latched cover flew open and his hand darted forward. Oily from the salve, the rat slipped through his grasp with a loud protesting squeak and took cover behind a chest.

Saadia's mouth worked hard and so did her temper, before she spoke. "A rat? You had a rat in your traveling bag?"

What should he answer?_ 'Wonderful… now Cicero will have to sleep under a tree, again…' _he thought bitterly. The rat was out of the bag, now and he had to catch her before she got behind any of the wardrobes. "Where else – in Cicero's pants?"

"You're cruel!" she snapped and chased after the rodent. "You can't keep an animal in there all the time!"

That wasn't the tantrum he had expected coming from her. "Would you have allowed Cicero in, if you knew what had been in my bag?"

Most women he had known were afraid of mice, rats and skeever. The way she reacted was not typical, especially not for someone who worked at an inn.

Not losing time with arguments, he went for the chest, moved it aside and carefully scooped the shuddering rat back into both his hands. If that happened more often, Cicero had no doubt the rodent would die from a heart attack.

The Redguard shook her head. "Don't you dare putting the poor dear back in there!"

"And what do you suggest, woman?" he asked, and shoved the squeaking rat into her face. "Some pretty pretty girl did this. If it hadn't for Cicero, it would be dead… burned to crisp!"

For a brief moment her expression softened, but shifted back to angry within the blink of an eye. "That little toad! One day she will pay for this…"

"You know the girl?" he asked

"Everyone knows Braith. She's a monster in disguise," Saadia said and swore under her breath. "That's what happens when one allows magic… only bad can come of it. And her parents always excuse her with being still a child."

"Saadia, don't gossip! I need help down here," the innkeeper called from downstairs.

They exchanged quiet looks, before she turned to leave the room. "I will be back later, with a box. That's much better, than you backpack." She straightened her apron and left with an annoyed grumble about Braith.

Alone with the rat and himself, he sat down on the ground, knees up. "So, what's Cicero supposed to do with you?"

The shiny black button eyes stared back at him, the tiny body shivering in his hands.

"Maybe a name?" he asked, smiled and turned the rat carefully to check what he actually had caught and whistled. "My my, aren't we are virile ratty… well, how about Crazy? Or maybe Snarler?" Cicero mused a moment, "No… not Snarler. Crazy will do fine."

The whiskers twitched as he rat sniffed at him, squeaking at him in weak defiance. The stress must have exhausted the poor critter. Maybe, if he had the promised box for his new pet, the animal would become a little more relaxed. It most certainly would be easier to feed the animal this way – at some point Cicero wanted both his hands free again.

It didn't take long, and he used the chest as temporary box for the rat. It was large enough for the animal to move, and closing the lid only so far that it still got some light and air would have to do for the time being. He was too hungry to wait any longer, and his strength wouldn't come back while his stomach growled like a famished wolf.

After he dropped some of the bread and carrot into the box, he moved over to his bed and began to eat the still warm stew. The carrots he would save for later, shouldn't he have a chance to obtain more coins. After emptying half of the wine bottle and eating most of the old bread, he slowly drifted off into an uneasy slumber – knowing it was too early to truly sleep and he needed to speak with the Companions – but his body was beyond caring. Sleep was what it needed and sleep was what it demanded – all Cicero could do was to oblige

oooooOOOOooooo

By the time Cicero had been roused from his slumber, half of the day had already passed. The sun stood low, painting the afternoon sky in hues of bright blue and gold as he ambled along the path leading behind Jovarrsk.

Hopefully, he could get this over with before it turned dark and most people had locked their houses down for the night. After asking Saadia about any work available, she had pointed him to the Jarl of Whiterun, and he doubted the Jarl would welcome any interruption outside of the scheduled time for audiences.

The high pitched song of clashing swords bounced of the walls in random beats, picking up speed now and then until a male rough voice snapped spicy insults. A flock of scared sparrows exploded from a nearby tree, jolting Cicero out of his treadmill-like mulling.

He halted nearby a row of bushes and small trees, looking through the gaps and holes between the twigs and branches. From here, he could see the reflections of glistening steel highlighting the ongoing movement.

A small group of armor clad individuals stood nearby, hooting and cheering at the combatants – their stances were well placed and he could see the lighter one of the fighting pair executed a perfectly accurate defense, outsmarting the opponent each time an attack was launched.

Move after move, both sides tested each other over and over again until one got the upper hand, forcing the other to surrender. After watching for several long moments in silence, Cicero nodded satisfied. It wasn't exactly how he would fight, but if all the companions fought like that, he had no doubt they would be indeed very handy for what the Listener had in mind.

Now, they only had to be willing to help a former Companion. He could only hope that Myrabeth knew them well enough, otherwise he had no idea how to convince them.

Leaving his concealment of twigs and foliage, he walked toward the small crowd. One of them, a scrawny male Dunmer locked gaze with him but didn't move until Cicero stood in front of them. The rest of the group nodded, some mumbled welcome.

"Have you come to join us?" a woman asked, from behind before he could do the first move.

Curious who had snuck up on him, Cicero turned around with a polite gesture. "The Lis… I mean Myrabeth sends her regards. She's in need of your service."

Her eyes narrowed, assessing him. "And your name is?"

Like most Nords, she was tall yet her build was light and so the choice of her armor. The way she held herself, the war paint on her face and her sharp eyes – it all radiated authority and a predatory elegance which he found most intriguing.

"How impolite of me to forget! My name is Cicero," he replied with a bow, reminding himself that he was not here as Fool of Hearts or Cicero the Jester. Right now he was merely a man, or rather a fool in disguise. "May I ask your name?"

"Well met Cicero," she said, reaching for his hand and arm to perform the traditional greeting among warriors of the Nord. "I am Alea. So, now tell me what our sister needs of us."

_'Sister?' _he thought and resisted the urge to correct the woman. An assassin was only brother or sister to other assassins of the Dark Brotherhood. Instead he nodded. "She is in need of you, indeed. There has been an incident, an attack on her family."

Alea frowned deeply, her eyes searching his face for the truth. As long as it took her to answer, as short it turned out. "Let's go inside."

She had led him to a richly decorated hall befitting rather a Jarl than a bunch of sellswords. Not even the dark Brotherhood of old had such noble interior – at least not when he had been around.

The large door closed behind, and Alea offered him a seat next to the still glimmering embers at the centre of the room. She told him to wait and left him alone to stare at tapestries, various shields and weapons, which protruded the walls. The companions didn't live too shabby. Not at all what Cicero would have expected.

Waiting for the woman to return with whoever she considered important to inform as well, he closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander. He reflected on what he would do after the companions had agreed to help their former_ 'sister'_.

The others at the Sanctuary didn't welcome him, and being around them was more of a necessity because of the Night Mother and her needs. And now, there was his new pet. Where could he leave Crazy when he was traveling? He couldn't take the rat with him on every venture as long as the critter kept biting g and hissing at him.

Cicero's lip twitched with humour, into his wide wry grin. His old rat had been a shy one, not as aggressive and nasty as Crazy. A low chuckle rose from his chest and turned into an amused hum. A rat was a rat, aggressive or docile. It didn't matter. All it would require was a caring hand and good food. In that all rats were the same.

"And if I happened to find a cat, I will feed it corpse to my pet rat," he crooned under his breath, finding the very concept very intriguing.

Old wood groaned as a door opened, and Cicero heard the dampened sound of three pair of feet on stone. Slowly he turned his head to the left, keeping his face straight. It never was a smart idea to show his foolish side to those Nords. Skyrim was a place of stern and no nonsense people who went down the basement to laugh.

In his experience, most of their kind were only friendly with strangers, if there was enough gold to pay for it. The less they liked you, the more they charged. Unfortunately, no one here liked jesters, except for the very young children.

Alea was the first to ascend from the lower part of the house; though he directed his attention at the two men he thought to be the other leaders and politely nodded. Dressed for battle, swords attached to their back-harnish and eyes covered with dark warpaint – they threw him a grim gaze as if they had planned to do something else rather than sitting down at a table.

_'There we go'_ Cicero thought. He could only hope Myrabeth had enough gold to pay for their help.

"Well met," the taller one said, his voice deep and rough – surprisingly friendlier than his face would let on. "I am Farkas and this is my brother Vilkas."

Eying the huge mountain of a warrior, Cicero inclined his head "Well met. I am Cicero and I am here on Myrabeth's behalf."

The other warrior, who was of smaller and leaner built regarded him suspiciously. "Alea already told us, so how about telling us something new and what this is about. We don't have all day."

"Calm down Vilkas, he was just doing that…" Farkas said calmly, putting his large hand on his brother's shoulders. "Now sit down before that stick in your backside snaps."

Cicero decided to like the huge Nord. Despite his rugged appearance, he seemed to be a good natured sort and not prone to mockery like his brother. They quietly sat down. Alea chose the head of the table, while Farkas reached for a the fruit bowl from the right side. "Only red apples" he asked, but Alea glared at him

"You can eat later," she scolded him, and turned at Cicero. "So, if Myrabeth is asking for us to help her out it must be something serious. No one messes with the twins and gets out of it with their hides intact."

How much did she know about their true identity? Cicero doubted they knew about Myrabeth and Ashlyn being part of the Dark Brotherhood, nor could he believe they knew about their unnatural heritage. Now he had to treat carefully, not giving away too much and in the end taking the blame should his eager mouth botch everything.

Tilting his head, he regarded the woman seriously "Myrabeth is currently on her own, her sister is gone and before you ask – I do not know more. The attack had been fierce and she fears the first one had only been a test. Next time they will send more or stronger forces."

The one who had been introduced to him as Vilkas cleared his throat. "What kind of forces? What has she gotten herself into this time?"

"Does it really matter? Our sister needs help and she will get it," Alea said – throwing mean glances at Vilkas.

"She is not our sister, anymore. She shunned her calling and left us without any explanation that made sense…" he complained but went silent as Farkas growled.

"She is still one of us Vilkas and always will be – she carries the honour and the strength of us with her," Farkas insisted.

Propped both her hands on the table, Alea shot out of her chair and barked. "Stop it! Both of you. If this is again about who will be the next Harbinger I am going to hunt down your backsides…"

Both men went quiet, looking embarrassed and not of them met her glare. From the corner of the eye, Cicero could see Alea smirking at their retreat. That woman most definitely had something wild and fierce about her, something one shouldn't challenge if he wanted to keep his ego intact. If she was willing to answer Myrabeth's call, the rest of them would follow. Of that Cicero was certain.

"The help she require from us" Vilkas started, then he bent a little forward to grab one of the green apples. "Do I assume correctly these attacks weren't of ordinary or mundane origin more dangerous than dragons?"

"You assume correctly even if Cicero has to admit the attack itself was executed by mundane men," Cicero explained hesitantly. "Also, it's not only the life of the Li… I mean – Myrabeth – at stake. Her fosterling and two more who I do not know much are threatened as much."

Farkas' head whipped in his direction. "Is the little Lu alright?"

"No harm came to her – in fact some of the dead bodies produced by this encounter where her doing," Cicero said with a hint of a smile – a new idea bloomed to life in his mind but that one he would follow up later.

Alea gestured for one of the apples. Farkas shoved the bowl her direction, his voice now severe. "I don't know what you two will decide, but I made mine. If they need our help, I will lend them my sword and bow!"

Feeling the need to explain the whole situation, Cicero fed them the details of what had occurred and who those enemies were Myrabeth needed help with. They all listened intently; sometimes Farkas cracked his knuckles, while Vilkas peeled his apple looking a tat too disinterested.

Alea leaned back in her chair as he finished, and said. "Count me in. Hadn't had a good chase in ages and it looks like our sister got more than she bargained for this time." She directed her attention back at Cicero. "How soon does she need us?"

"I have open contracts and the patrons expect us to deliver in time," Vilkas intervened, looking outraged at the woman. "You can't decide for all of us…"

"You're not going to join us, brother?" Farkas asked slowly.

Pointing at Cicero, Vilkas stood from his chair. "Instead of Myrabeth, he comes here, dropping her request at our feet and now you expect us to ignore our duties for her? You can't be serious Alea. It was her who turned her back on us!"

"Do what you want Vilkas… but we will go and I will ask the others if they join us," Alea replied unshaken by his gruff response. "She had her reasons to leave Whiterun and it's not up to you or us to judge her for it!"

Vilkas snarled, and said something Cicero couldn't understand. Without a word he left the table, went for the door which he tore open violently and hauled it shut behind him with even more brutal force.

Cicero clicked with his tongue and shook his head. "How unsettling. I am certain Myrabeth had no intention of causing any dispute." Uncertain what else to say, he decided to take his leave before they involved him too deeply in their quarrel. "She will need your aid as soon as you can give it. The incident at Falkreath requires her to leave town and find a new place to stay – which means she won't be around her family to protect them from harm."

"Don't worry about Vilkas. He's an old clotpole with the temper of a naggy fishwife," Aela said, her lips twisted in a sardonic smile. "Farkas, make sure he gets back to his place in one piece. Can't have Vilkas chewing Myra's friend…"

"Will do," the huge Nord said, throwing Cicero a friendly smile as they both headed for the large door leading back into the City. "Really a shame they had to leave Whiterun. They would have been much safer here. How have they been so far?"

Once outside, Cicero shrugged. "Aside from the attack they seemed to do just fine," Cicero answered, though he needed to know. "How well do you know the twins – if Cicero may ask?"

Before Farkas could answer, a blurred motion to his right and the pained sound of vibrating metal sinking in weathered wood redirected Cicero's and Farkas eyes attention at Vilkas. The warrior pierced them both with a pair of deepfreeze cold eyes, his lips parted to animalistic gnarl.

Cicero eyed the dagger that plunged half way in the wall of their building. A powerful throw, yet an awful abuse of a good blade. _'A clotpole through and through', _he silently agreed with Aela's previous sentiment.

"Vilkas!" Farkas growled, tearing the dagger out of the wood. "Don't you try that again… next time you have to deal with me."

With a sneer, the other warrior turned and left them without any further discussion. Whatever Myrabeth had done, one of the Companions heavily disapproved. Whatever it meant, Cicero could only hope it wouldn't get in the way – or maybe it would be a good thing if he got in the way? Because if it did, Vilkas would be very very sorry. Cicero liked that thought.

"Is he always like that?" Cicero asked slowly, assessing the chances of removing the snappy Nord from the face of the world. "He seems very hateful."

Farkas sighed, his shoulders moved in an awkward shrug. "I have to apologize for my brother. He can be arrogant at times, but … well, how do I explain this." The huge Nord sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I am sorry, I am not good with words and tend to talk too much."

"You can tell me what happened… Cicero won't tell anyone," he assured him.

Visibly uncomfortable Farkas' rubbed his neck. "They have been intimate and he fell for her pretty hard - we all warned him but he rather listened to his dick than us. She's pretty and smart, but not someone who wants to settle down and have pups."

"That she is indeed," Cicero said – biting back the jealous undertone lacing his tongue.

This time Farkas laughed; a deep rough baritone. "The twins are something… but far too wilful and fickle for a Nord like Vilkas." A few seconds later he stopped, chewing on his lower lip. "It's not my business… but are you and Myrabeth…?"

Blinking, Cicero had trouble to sort his thoughts. The twins were beautiful creatures, but he always had regarded them as his little sisters and not potential lovers. Back then, whoever touched his girls, ended up poisoned or stabbed in the darkest corner of the Imperial City.

They have been youngsters and he a grown up man when they met and decided to be friends. If at all, it would rather have been Ashlyn. Sweet calm and kind Ashlyn. Myrabeth always had been and still was far too volatile and erratic – very much like he was now.

"Cicero isn't suicidal…" he replied and patted the huge Nord on the back. "Want to share some tales over cooled ale?"

Farkas stopped at the large door of the Bannered Mare. "Why do you talk like that?"

Cicero frowned "Because…"

"That's not an answer," Farkas complained.

Amused by the Nords puzzled look, Cicero smirked. "Cicero is a Jester in disguise."

Farkas scratched his head. "Do all Jester speak as if they suffer personality disorder?"

Opening the door, Cicero looked inside for a free table before answering. "It's in our job description."

"Sounds more like _'having fallen on your head too often'_," Farkas countered.

If anyone else would have lumped his demeanour in one pot with personality disorder he would have cut their throat. Though, Farkas didn't appear the like the mean sort and in a way, he gave the impression of not being the brightest light around, too. So he would show mercy, just this once.

The smell of fresh bread mingled with the thick air inside of the tavern room. Reaching inside his pouch, he let his shoulders slump. He only had three septims left. Not enough to buy more than one tankard, maybe two if he put some more honey into his words.

"Greetings," Saadia chirped from the kitchen, flashing a pearly white at him. "Left you something upstairs." As she saw Farkas, her eyes went wide. "You're with the Companions? Why haven't you told us before?"

"Well, Cicero did…" he started, but found the look on her face too fascinating.

Saadia's hand went to her forehead. "Silly me… you're right. Truly, if I had known I would have charged less."

Farkas snuck into the kitchen, hugging the dark skinned woman against his chest, "Awww Saadia, haven't seen you for ages… did that Bard pester you again?"

"No he didn't. Now let go of me you lumbering oaf," she breathed, laughing hard. "Have a seat. Want the usual?"

Together, they picked a table near the kitchen. The half of a day had passed since he had last eaten, and the smell of stew and fresh bread teasing his nose caused his stomach to complain much harder now.

"Farkas!" Hulda greeted from behind the bar table.

Farkas' head turned her direction, "Oi!"

The woman nodded, grabbed two tankards, filled them with a golden liquid and brought it over to their table very much to Cicero's delight. "How's business? Got many contracts recently?" she asked, propping the tankards in front of each of them.

"The usual – clobbering ," Farkas said and took a deep draft from his ale. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he asked. "Got anything interesting for us to take care of?"

"Have you heard about the Jarl's son," she asked, bending closer - her voice very low. "The jarl is offering a good amount of gold if someone could find out what happened to his son, Nelkir. That boy behaves more than strange. Rumours have it that he's possessed by some demon which turns him evil."

That had Cicero's interest, since there wasn't much else to do. Farkas at the other hand didn't look too happy about the suggested work, which meant he wouldn't be angry if Cicero took a closer look at the boy. Last time he had asked for work, they only had offered him domestic tasks and of that he had enough back at the Sanctuary.

"I don't know Hulda," Farkas said slowly, as if he couldn't decide. "That sounds more mage's work if demons are involved. Didn't anyone complain about trolls or giants, recently? Maybe some marauding bears stealing livestock?"

Hulda shook her head. "That's all I got, besides the usual firewood and wheat deliveries."

Peering at the Nord from the side, Cicero said. "Maybe, we'll look into it if we get a chance to see the jarl."

"Do we?" Farkas looked dumbfounded, but drowned the annoyed look in his tankard. "Hope you know what you're doing. You can have my sword, but don't expect me to do the magic part…"

The heavy doors of the tavern sprang open. "Beer and some wenches!" someone droned, before having even set a foot inside.

"Well boys, let me know when you find out what's going on. Have to go," she said, rolling her eyes and left them to their ale. "Coming…"

"It's about time," the newcomer said, a derelict looking fellow dressed in an even more derelict looking robe.

"Hope you can pay this time, Sam. You still owe me fifteen septims," she said, went behind the bar and returned with a large dark bottle at his table "… this makes now seventeen septims."

"My dearest Hulda," the man drawled, hauling her onto his lap "it hurts me to see so much distrust in your beautiful eyes. Have a little faith in me…"

Cicero's eyes narrowed, but Farkas was too fast and gestured him to stay out of it. "Don't. It's not as bad as it looks and you don't want to get toe to toe with Sam. He once beat the shit out of me and my brother when we interfered for the very same reason."

Seeing his friendly host falling victim to some rude drunk, and not being able to help her made him angry. Severely angry.

"She has been nice to Cicero, I cannot sit here and watch him violating her!" Cicero hissed, not taking his eyes from the Breton who kept curling a lock of her hair around his index. "I'll help her, now!"

Farkas made a face, and pushed him back into his chair and held him there. "Sit down."

"Cicero has seen enough," he snapped, angry at being pinned to his chair.

The drunken Breton glanced over at him, flashed a mean grin and turned his attention back at Hulda. "You know, I missed this place and most of all you."

"My dearest Sam, as sweet as your voice can be – I rather prefer the golden jingle of coins in my purse," Hulda said, lifting her opened hand in front of his face.

A lopsided smirk appeared on the drunken man's face. "Alright my greedy bird. But just this once!"

Appeased by the resolve of Hulda's situation, Cicero allowed his body to relax a little. Next time he would have to be a little less impulsive. Most of the time he didn't care what happened to others around him, they were strangers to him. But not Saadia and Hulda. They had been friendly – especially Saadia. Hadn't Farkas been around, he would have made a total butthead of himself.

"You see? All good!" Farkas hummed into his tankard.

Turning his attention back at the half full tankard, Cicero changed the subject. "How long have Ashlyn and Myrabeth been with the Companions?"

Farkas scratched his chin. "I am not good keeping track of time. I really don't know to be honest. Long enough for me to call them shield sisters and trust them both with my life."

"Have you been close with any of them?" Cicero asked lightly.

Snorting into his tankard, Farkas began to cough. "By Shor, No! I just would break them… they are so – tiny!"

_'If you knew who they are consorting with you wouldn't worry about their size…'_ Cicero thought, but didn't comment on it any further. "Your brother didn't think the same, apparently."

Farkas snorted, then grinned. "He's not as big as me…, besides I prefer women like Saadia. Redguard women have fire in their blood. She's a good bed warmer, that one."

"Do you always talk about women like that?" Cicero noted with some irritation.

Someone laughed softly having Cicero and Farkas jumping out of their chairs, "Yep he does, but doesn't mean it like that." Ashlyn's broad smile greeted, the rest of her face hidden under the hood of her traveling cloak. "Awww my little sister is back," Farkas bellowed and hauled her against his chest. "Let me look at you…" he said and held her a little away from him. "By Shor, you look… good?"

Somewhat timidly, her eyes averted. "Don't ask Farkas. You wouldn't like to hear the story…" Then she lifted the hood a little, revealing metalline golden eyes – unnatural and strange "Haven't expected to find you here… what are you doing in Whiterun Cicero?"

Agape, he lost hold of every thought. Every single word fell to the ground like juggling balls he had failed to catch.

"Spitfire, over here!" the Breton called from behind her.

Ashlyn didn't move, her eyes on Cicero, "Not now, San…"

"You're back?" Cicero asked, not believing his eyes. Carefully he poked her shoulder. "You're back! Yes yes, you're back!" Discarding her strange appearance he wrapped his arms around her small frame and laughed. "Back…" Farkas chuckled, and from the corner of his eyes he could see the Nord retreating – leaving them some room. "Cicero missed you so much."

Patting his back, she said "There there, all will be well! Now tell me what you're doing here. Shouldn't you be with my sister, helping her with our little problem?"

His nose deep in the fabric of her cloak, he noticed that it was the one he had given her ages ago. Relieved she still held him at least in some high regard, he mumbled. "She wants to employ the Companions… that's why Cicero is here. But why she chose me, I can't answer."

Cupping his face, she forced him to look at her. "I am so sorry about all this! It must be hard for you not to be around the Night Mother."

Not being with the Night Mother was the last of his concerns. Taking in her appearance once more, he noticed the deep rings under her eyes and the gaunt features. It was disturbing. Not even the hood could hide the weakened state she was in, and the golden skin was unmistakably not of mortal origin.

Cicero breathed "What happened to you…"

Once more he wished Myrabeth had been at least somewhat more forthcoming about what had happened at Markarth. The little half-eaten scraps of information he had been able to pull out of Lucia and Rose only had made it worse for him.

A deep baritone joined their conversation, arms theatrically spread. "Ladies and Gentlemen - greetings, salutations and merry pleasantries – could we skip the rest of this heart-throbbing welcome-home ceremony? I am hungry and thirsty – and I am considered annoying when I am hungry and thirsty."

Letting go of Cicero's face, she turned at the Breton behind her. "When is there a time you're not hungry and thirsty - and annoying?" Her eyes narrowed, her index pointed at Sam "It has been some time when Cicero and I had a chance to speak. Now, how about a little diplomacy here? It wouldn't hurt you using it more often."

The rugged Breton laughed, not sounding drunk at all, anymore. "Bah! Diplomacy is nothing more than eloquent deception when blatant honesty fails."

"Sithis' ass! Aren't there any spinsters you could pester instead?"

Sam shrugged carelessly. "I find you far more pleasing to the eye and… touch."

"Hey! Show some manners! That's my shield sister you're talking to!" Farkas growled.

Sam graced him with a wide daring grin. "Oh the puppy barks… want me to mop the floor with you, again? Last time was extremely entertaining."

Everyone around Cicero tensed for a split second, and from the corner of his eye he could see Farkas shifting into a subtle defensive stance. Sam's provoking stare wandered between him and the huge Nord, daring one of them to make the first move. If that shitfaced braggart truly had the wish to start a fight, Cicero would be more than happy to oblige.

Ashlyn was the first who broke the uneasy silence with an outraged hiss, meant only for their ears. "Pox on you all! Don't you dare starting a brawl – both you! Because if you do, I will join this time and none of you guys will leave with your skin and balls intact. Is that clear?"

Farkas and Sam exchanged knowing looks, chuckled and dropped their aggressive attitude towards each other as if it had never existed.

_'And they call me nuts…'_ Cicero thought a little disappointed. He would have loved to pummel the arrogant Breton, and if merely for the sake of causing humiliation.

"The Lady's wish is our command, eh?" Sam quipped and was rewarded with a fist in his shoulder. "Hey! Do that again and you end up over my knees."

Saadia came by with a large platter of grilled vegetables and meat chunks. "Get a room or I'll get a bucket with cold water!"

"How about some cold beer or ale instead?" Sam offered in return.

"If you can pay?" Saadia replied crisply, arms crossed. It was obvious she disliked Sam.

Jingling a pouch in front of her face, the Breton flopped on a chair next to Farkas "Certainly. On me! And if you have, some of the best wine – not that watered down berry juice you sell as such."

Despite his grudge against the Breton, Cicero eased back into his chair. "When will you return to your sister? Maybe we could ride together."

Ashlyn shook her head "No. I am afraid not. We'll meet at Falkreath, but San and I will travel a different route, taking care of a few details in Solitude before I can re-join my sister."

Cicero wanted to ask if he could accompany her, though, the way Sam stared him down made it very clear that whatever she meant by her explanation would have to do. Reluctantly and disgruntled, he closed his mouth, and kept his eyes on the table.

Left to hope this unpleasant fellow wouldn't be around too much. That one had an unexplainable daunting aura, radiating power which belied his shabby appearance. A clear and vivid warning he would have to take serious, bringing back an old expression. _Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer._

Sam's lips twisted into a crooked smile as he held out his hand "Let's drop all that hostility have some friendly drinking competition?"

Farkas grunted his satisfaction, returning to his chair. "That's more to my liking. How about some cozy and willing wenches?"

"Cozy and willing wenches are out, I fear," Sam replied and laughed as Ashlyn groaned.

She drew the hood of her cloak deeper into her face. "I don't believe this…. Nope. I do not belong to this idiot…. Really."

Cicero agreed silently. Maybe now was the right moment to have a little chat with his friend. Since her sister hadn't been entirely open about their situation, maybe Ashlyn would at least explain a few details important to him. She owed him at least that much.

Placing a hand on her forearm, he gently tugged at her for attention. "Could Cicero have a word with you?" glancing over at Farkas and Sam. "Alone?"

Her right eyebrow cocked. "You can trust them. Farkas knows what we are…"

That fact was surprising and it disturbed him. The Nord didn't know the twins as long has he had known them. Why have they shared their secrets with a Nord, prone to superstition and never really told him – their friend and former trainer.

"It's personal…and who knows when Cicero will have another chance to talk to you," Cicero replied and drew her with him upstairs before the Breton could protest. "Please? For old time's sake?"

"Can't we…" She said, but shut her mouth as he put his index on her mouth.

"Please sweet Ash… do Cicero this one favour. I never asked for much, but this I ask of you" he said, ignoring Sam's intense glare.

She locked gaze with the Breton, whose features had darkened in the meanwhile. The silent conversation between them ended with a short nod from Sam, but the sinister expression remained on his face. It was obvious that Sam was controlling his temper. Cicero smiled inwardly. He had won.

Taking the stairs to his room, he hoped Crazy was still in his box and hadn't eaten through the wood. Most rodents discovered rather quickly when their prison wasn't as sturdy as their teeth.

Closing the door of his room behind him, he leaned against it while watching his friend taking off her cloak. A few long moments they just stood there, face to face not saying a word. Suddenly there was a soft tingling sensation brushing against his mind,

His eyes snapped wide open in shocked awe. "What? Mother? Is that your voice I hear?" There was only silence, and the nice presence in his head was gone replaced by the shrill cackle of the jester. Disappointed, he walked toward the bed where he slumped down. "Hmm... No, no... Just my head playing tricks... Foolish Cicero. I am sorry Ashlyn. My mind isn't what it used to be…"

"I can see that," she replied quietly and sat down next to him. "Hm. Seems you and I have to talk about much more than just about what happened to me. Don't you agree?" she chirped, and smiled sweetly even if only for a brief moment. "Want to make a deal?"

Drawing a pillow over his face, he muttered, "What is it with you and always asking for a deal. Is that some Daedra thing?"

She pulled the pillow from his face and cooed, her voice lilting and light as Cicero remembered it. "I could offer you something else… but you wanted me up here to talk. So…."

"If Cicero had no manners, I would call you an asshole…" he huffed, reclaiming the pillow.

Ashlyn laughed. "Well, that's still better than having Cicero ignoring and avoiding me."

"Not avoiding, saving us both the pain…" he muttered and averted his eyes.

"Not good enough. Now spill it. Why do you want me up here," she said, her eyes darting over to the door. "San doesn't trust you and I don't know how long he will stay put before he blunders in here."

Cicero snorted into his pillow. "Well, Cicero doesn't trust that drunken mud brain, either." Lifting the pillow a little he ogled at her. "Now my dear friend, tell me something. Do you merely pronounce his name the wrong way, or does San actually mean Sanguine?"

She went quiet and he had to put the pillow aside to see what she was doing. Her eyes stared off, fixing a non-existing spot at the wall. "Nothing escapes you… Myrabeth couldn't keep her potty mouth shut, couldn't she?"

"Actually, it was Lucia," he said carefully, balancing his weight now on his elbows. "Why him?"

"Oath Bond," she said, but didn't elaborate

Cicero sat up straight, "Oath Bond? You haven't sold your soul to him, haven't you?"

Now she laughed sharply. "No. It's not what you think and don't let his attitude towards me fool you. I trust him with my very life and soul – and if he truly had wanted to enslave me he could have done so on more than one occasion. That Oath Bond is between him and my father…a promise of protection. Sort of a favour if I remember it correctly."

"He's a daedric prince," Cicero insisted. "Daedra can't be trusted! How could your father trust him!" he burst out, and shut his mouth at her hurt look.

"Thank you very much…considering my heritage that would make me untrustworthy as well…" she replied with a sour undertone. "Why does it bother you so much? Even the companions accept me for what I am. The only detail they don't know is that I actually joined the Dark Brotherhood – which I have to admit wasn't my smarted choice in life so far." She pointed a finger at him. "Is that why you wanted me up here? Lecturing me about being a mongrel?"

Ignoring the last bit she said, he scrambled from the bed and walked next to her. "Everyone knew, except for Cicero. Even that pea brained shaggy downstairs?"

"Careful! Don't underestimate Farkas. Just because he acts simple doesn't mean he is," she warned and walked over to the box where he had hidden Crazy in. "I told you more than often enough about our heritage and the only reaction you gave me was a pat on the head as if I was just some retard."

"Cicero never believed you, indeed," he admitted a little hesitant about his own forgetfulness.

Ashlyn returned to the bed and sat down right next to him. "You know what's ironic?"

"Hmm?" he hummed, meeting her gaze.

"The Daedra may be fickle creatures, immature at times and highly volatile when it comes to their mood," she began with a small smile which turned sad as she continued "But they have been far better friends and loyal allies than any mortal we encountered so far – except for you and Rose."

"Have they never tried tricking you?" he asked with disbelief. Daedra enjoyed nothing more than dragging mortals into misery and humiliation.

Staring at the ceiling, his friend smirked. "You have to be on your toes and know who you are dealing with. In that, they are so very different to mortals. Each of the daedric princes embodies one or more aspects, which makes it almost impossible for them to break habit. This makes them extremely predictable."

"Sounds awfully complicated to figure out," Cicero sighed.

Ashlyn shifted, rolling her body onto her side, facing him with her head propped on a hand. "It's really simple. Always expect a Daedra to entirely act within the limit of its aspects, and do not even try to make it understand anything not covered by these. For example - Boethia will never grasp the meaning of friendship and loyalty. Family ties mean nothing to her. But you have to expect a dagger in your back if you allow your guard to drop."

Still not at peace with that explanation he sat up, looking down at her. "I see. Forgive an old fool for not being comfortable with these things. My loyalty lies with the dread father and our unholy matron. Daedra don't have a place in my world." Then he grinned. "So what do you expect of Sanguine? Getting drunken real bad or getting laid often? Maybe both?"

Her eyes widened, her lips pressed together until the treacherous twitching set in and she ended in a guffaw. "You really had to ask that, right? That's the Cicero I remember…"

Curling back his upper lip, he grinned naughtily at her. "And you haven't changed. Always evading my questions."

Rolling her eyes, she huffed "None of your business what I do for what reason with him. He's different from the rest of the bunch…" She poked her index into his shoulder. "You're horrible!"

Biting at her finger he chuckled. "Lucia told me what she found in your wardrobe… is that what makes him so different for you?"

"What? That little…" she exclaimed but went quiet at once as her face darkened.

"You have drawings of Cicero, too?" he asked teasingly.

"Don't tell me she showed you those," Ashlyn sighed weakly.

"Would it matter?" he asked.

She never had been ashamed of anything, spoke out things other whispered behind closed doors. Seeing her all flustered about some little dirty secret hidden away in her room had its own charm, and he would be damned to let this chance slip through his fingers.

Growling she buried her face in the blanked beneath her. "I kill that little brat…"

"Oh please, don't be so shy. We both know you have always been a bashful one," Cicero kept teasing. "So, have you drawn me nude, too?"

"No!" her growl muffled by the blanket, she shook her head.

Enjoying himself, he poked her shoulder. "But you have kinky drawings of Sanguine?"

"Pox on you Cicero!" she growled now louder. "Keep your mouth shut about that when San is around. Don't need his ego to bloat even further."

His expression shifted from mischievous to mean. "You wanted to make a deal. How about this? Cicero keeps his mouth shut when your ever-drunken horndog is around and you give your Fool of Hearts a kiss."

Cicero had to bite the inside of his cheek, swallowing the upwelling laughter has she crossed her arms in defiance. Flashing his eyebrows at her, he waited for an answer. In the past he had loved joshing her, even if it had been difficult because she looked through most of his ruses.

"You want me to kiss you," she asked, when he nodded shamelessly she was over him and straddled his hips. "You didn't want me to at the Imperial City, remember?"

"You had been a child back then. If you had been a little older, Cicero would have done much more to you…" he chuckled darkly, pushing his hips against her.

Her lips stretched into a nasty grin as she squeezed her legs tighter. "Oh really? Instead you went with Nelly. I am not certain what to make of that? If I had known back then I would have cut her throat myself."

"Pity you didn't, because Cicero would have loved to witness you killing her." Wrapping his arms around her waist he drew her closer against his codpiece. "Maybe we should do some stabbing together, anytime soon?"

"Careful that you don't get too excited," Ashlyn wagged a finger at him and moved her hip a little, provoking the already growing bulge between his legs. "Or we have a heavily jealous Daedra pounding you with an empty bottle."

Unwilling to let her off the hook, he drawled "A deal is a deal… besides, isn't he more about whoring than violence?"

"I haven't agreed to that deal, yet," she purred, but bent down close to his face. "I'll ask you again. You sure you want to kiss me? If I told you where that mouth had been, you might want to reconsider - if the possibility of getting beaten up doesn't do that already?" Her lips twitched with amusement and Cicero knew he had gone too far with his intended joke. "You said it yourself... whoring... so what shall it be?"

She stared down at him expectantly and all he could do was staring back at her.

"You're a terrible faker!" he finally concluded, ignoring the throbbing arousal between their bodies. "And an asshole…I wanted to make fun of you! Now look what you did - you made fun of Cicero…"

Ashlyn immediately fixed a blank expression on her face. Not even her eyes betrayed what she was thinking. Slowly she slid off him, turning her face away. Worried, Cicero sat up. As crude as this joke had been, he hadn't intended to insult or hurt his old friend.

Quietly, he went on his knees and inched closer. "Ash?" He touched her back. ".. so sorry…"

She didn't answer. Instead a slight tremor went through her body. Ashlyn hid her face in both hands, which made it impossible for him to see her face. Cicero's heart sank and he suddenly felt terribly ill. His intended pun had backfired straight in his face. He should have known better.

Her shoulders trembled and a guttural chortle rose from her throat, growing louder. "Got ya!" she cawed, peeking at him from under her white hair. "Sithis! You should see that look on your face. Priceless!"

"That will teach me…" he said disgruntled, dropped back and growled as she pecked his cheek. "Should have known. A faker through and through… as Cicero said!"

Ashlyn laughed harder, slapping her hand on her knee. "You forgot the _'asshole'_ part."

"Makes me wonder from whom you got that attitude." Annoyed by his still throbbing groin, he inched away from her, before any stupid idea could convince him to do something utterly foolish.

"Sanguine is a good teacher… went through a hard school," she said.

Even more annoyed, he made a face. "Spare me the details."

"Don't worry. What happens between him and me is no one's business. I prefer to leave that to people's fantasies," she said and giggled. "I love being an inspiration, you know."

Sticking out his tongue, he pushed himself off the back. "Don't need that kind of inspiration."

"Are you mad at me?" she asked, still laughing.

"Cicero is miffed. But not with you. I am angry at myself for being fooled so easily…" he grunted, moving over to the box with Crazy. "I want to introduce you to someone." Beckoning her closer, he was grateful to change the subject. "Look what Cicero found. Maybe you could help healing the poor little fella." It was better to change the subject than dwelling on old hopes and current needs.

Next to him, she went down on her knees. "What happened to the poor furry?"

"Burned by magical fire…" he growled, evading Crazy's attack on his fingers. "Some brat practiced her spells on him."

"Sounds like Braith," Ashlyn sighed.

"You know the cruel child?" Cicero asked, wondering if there was someone who didn't know the girl.

Ashlyn reached inside the box and carefully scooped up the rat. "I lived here for a while. Now let me have a look at your friend."

Amazed and a little jealous Cicero watched her handling the rodent without getting bitten even once. The rat was calm, even sniffed at her curiously. "How do you do that?"

Ashlyn turned to face him. "Do what?"

"He's a little snarler. Always biting poor gentle Cicero's finger! Why doesn't he bite you?" he asked, perplexed.

Placing the rat on her lap, she smiled at him in an adoring fashion which flooded him with warmth and a relaxing confidence. "Like that," she whispered, her hand reaching out for his face. "And that's only a fraction of what I can do…" she added with a wicked smile.

Sucking in a breath at the heat of his returning arousal. "Don't!"

The door sprang open. "Enough!"

They both jumped, and Crazy almost fell to the ground if Cicero wouldn't have been on his toes already. Ashlyn had warned him in advance, and it had only been a matter of time her companion would intrude. It was a wonder the Daedra hadn't done so much earlier.

"Out with you! I have a patient which requires my aid," his friend barked at the lumbering Breton. "You'll just get in the way…."

Sanguine's mortal features twisted with disgust, "And that does involve enticing some mortal clown? He would have jumped you if I hadn't intervened. I doubt that's what you wanted."

"I am a jester not a clown!" Cicero seethed.

Ashlyn took the rat from his grasp. "Calm down. Both of you, I am warning you…" Making chirping sounds, Cicero watched her carrying the rat over to the bed. "Now let's clean you up sweetie. Can't have you looking like a buttered rat roast, can't we?"

"When that walking sausage is treated, are we done here then?" the disguised Daedra asked impatiently, glaring over at Cicero. "Or do you have anything else you want to talk with her in privacy?"

"Stop throwing him that stink-eye of doom!" Ashlyn said without looking up. "Sanguine! I mean it…"

"Then get done with it." Sanguine growled. "Damn wench…next time you use that ability of yours while I am close you better prepare yourself for retribution."

Helplessly, Cicero shook his head. His world was upside down. Wasn't a daedric prince supposed to be fierce and merciless? Ashlyn apparently didn't fear the infernal entity, even had the audacity to backtalk at him like an equal - like Myrabeth did. That was too much.

Still aroused he fled the room, leaving the two alone to quarrel. Crazy was in good hands, of that he was certain. Ashlyn always had been kind with animals. Regardless, he couldn't stay. Not while that debauching drunkard was around.

_'Find me'_ the familiar soft voice fluttered against the shuddering walls of his mind.

'Mother?' he thought, half relieved half crazed.

_'Find the boy…find me'_ came the reply, before silence returned.

No it couldn't be. The Night Mother didn't talk to anyone except the Listener. And he was merely the Keeper, damned to silence. Blinded by the overwhelming need for solitude, he fled the inn and bound into the streets of Whiterun until he reached the city walls. He climbed up the rocks, and sat down pondering his options until the sun vanished behind a chain of mountains.

oooooOOOOooooo


End file.
